Part Second: The Hart Rampant: Chapter 17, Part 2

Chapter 17, Part 2:

Hermione Granger received no more hate mail after that second week of March, but Emily told her to hang on to the Amulet of Protection till the end of April, just in case. As March gave way to April, Miss Granger was not the only one at Hogwarts having an eventful spring.

Spring. That first week of April, Emily had walked down to Hogsmeade on an errand and noticed the first shoots of new grass poking up from the wet ground and the first tiny green buds of leaves on the trees. That long, dismal, claustrophobic Scottish winter was finally over, which filled her with mad exhilaration. At home, everyone would have been having new finery made for Gwydion's Beltane celebration, and dreaming of some likely romantic interest to pursue around the bonfires, but here, it was enough to no longer be hemmed in by that endless ice and snow.

Emily's second term at Hogwarts had fallen into an extremely interesting pattern by the time spring finally came, even without the possibility of dancing around the ritual fires. She wouldn't have called this pattern entirely fulfilling or absolutely pleasant, but it certainly was interesting.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, she would meet with Professor Snape, and he would try to stick her with various pointy objects while being insufferably sarcastic, prickly, and uncooperative about the whole thing. Additionally, Snape's attempts to stick her were growing more and more disturbingly expert all the time – he had taken to dagger fighting with even more facility than he did to fencing, again absorbing all she taught him with an almost frightening quickness. Dagger combat was similar to sword combat, once one adjusted to the faster reactions required of a closer, more intimate style of fighting; and Snape was clearly practising on his own. As she continued to train him, there were an increasing number of moments in which she genuinely would not have wanted to encounter this sedate school don in a dark alley.

But despite Snape's perennial funk, it actually was pleasant to have a real sparring partner at Hogwarts, and she would have been enjoying their sessions if someone could have cast a Silencio spell on that good gentleman in addition to covering his scowl with a fencing mask. Emily still had no idea what was prompting Snape's extreme moodiness. She imagined that he must have been feeling the pressure after the Second Task – perhaps he had been given some extra duties to do with the Third Task or some such, because now he was just a bleeding edge of raw nerves. During their training sessions, Emily would try to keep their personal interaction to an absolute bare minimum of communication necessary for the task at hand, but somehow Snape always managed to slip some sly barb or insinuation into their talk anyway. By the time he left her in the evenings, she was never sorry to see him go.

Then after Snape spent the week winding her patience up to the furious boiling point, most weekends she would meet Lucius at some luxurious hotel for another illicit wallow in sex and self-indulgence. The more she acted like a spoiled, selfish, irreverent little brat, the more Lucius seemed to enjoy it. The more Snape annoyed her with his sarcasm and his criticisms, his dire, endlessly dissatisfied looks, the hard, cold, immovable fact of his distrust and dislike – the more she longed to get away from him and let Lucius shag her into blessed oblivion.

And Lucius, it seemed, was always happy to oblige, as often as possible. The man either had the drives of a satyr, or a sexless marriage. It was not unusual for him to want to make love right after he woke up in the morning, then to want a leisurely second session in the satiated languor that followed a luxurious midday meal, then to drift off to sleep after a final performance in the evening, like some long symphony with multiple, climactic endings.

Lucius also seemed disturbingly well-practiced at this business of keeping his wife, whose material greed seemed to know no bounds, happy, while enjoying Emily's attentions in various hotel rooms. When he had arranged a tryst with her at Hogwarts, just after the Second Task, beneath the very noses of his wife and other respectable peers, she had marvelled at his brazen subtlety. It made her wonder, now and then, how many times he had done this sort of thing before, and with whom – but this proof of his jaded libertine's ways was strangely reassuring to her. Certainly she would not leave a man like Lucius Malfoy bleeding when she said her good-byes for home. No doubt the send-off would be memorable, but she also had no doubt he would be amusing himself with someone else within a month.

No doubt about it, Second-World men were some damned complicated bastards.

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Sometime in the second week of April, Draco Malfoy came to see Professor Swain during her office hours.

Since the beginning of her involvement with his father, Emily had begun avoiding the boy in small ways, cutting her eyes away when she saw him with his friends in the halls, answering his questions briefly when he raised his hand in class. She could see some measure of disappointment in his eyes, as he seemed to be working hard in her class, actively seeking her approval. Every time Draco talked to her, he always had questions about everything – how did a swordmaker know how to balance a blade, how were daggers weighted, how long had the Fianna been using vorpal blades, did they make them so sharp through magic, or smithcraft, or a combination of both? If Faeries couldn't forge iron to make steel, what were her armaments made of? She was teaching a more complex system of fencing than the European models, why was that? Where did her style of blade combat come from? Was it uniquely Arcadian? Were there books on the subject?

It seemed that Draco was genuinely interested in melee combat and armoury for their own sake, not just as a way to impress girls or slay his enemies. He turned in an extra credit essay on the use of magic in folded-metal blade forging, with a bibliography and footnotes, into which he had very obviously put a great deal of independent research – really a fourth cousin to literature. In short order, the younger Malfoy had become her low-technology combat expert in much the same way Hermione Granger was her Arcadian magic and culture expert.

Emily felt guilty about giving short shrift to such a diligent pupil. But seeing a young, tender version of Lucius looking at her so trustingly, and with some admiration, when she was currently embroiled in a highly improper but exceedingly rewarding relationship with his father, was like a fishhook twisting in her conscience. So when Draco turned up in her office that day, looking across her desk with those sullen, appealing grey eyes, more than a little of her melted.

"Could I talk to you?" he asked.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy, what about?"

"Privately?" Draco added, with a curt nod toward the other inhabitants of her office. Hermione Granger, Viktor Krum, George Weasley, and her usual gang of Ravenclaws were sprawled around the room drinking tea and poring over various books.

"All right – let's go into the classroom."

Once inside, Draco leaned against one of the front row desks and faced her grimly, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't think I can do it," he said. "Make up a Word of Power."

"Just keep trying," she said reassuringly. "It hasn't even been two terms."

"But my father said that most people who can do it, do it in a few months." Draco's expression was clearly worried. "Can't you tell me what I'm doing wrong, or something?"

"All right, I'll try to give you some more pointers," Emily said, smiling. "Are you trying to create your Word in English?"

"Yeah, I was," Draco said, nodding.

"Don't, then. Like I said in class, it's harder to create a Word using the rules of a living language. The diphthongs and customary letter arrangement of your native language get so ingrained into you that creating a totally new word from it can be very difficult. Can you speak any other languages besides English?"

"I know some French, and some Latin. Before I turned eleven, my parents hired tutors for me. My parents speak French, and my father wanted me to learn it because the Malfoys descended from Norman wizard lords who came here from France," Draco said proudly. "And I learned Latin because Father says it's the traditional language of magicians and scholars."

"He's right," Emily said, nodding. "So you probably shouldn't try to create your Word from Latin either. It's widely studied by Muggle scholars and clergy, and among wizards, it really is practically a living language. So that leaves French... hmmm."

"I should try to create my Word from French, then?" Draco asked.

"Not modern French, as it's also a living language with millions of speakers. In your case, I would be looking into the old French dialects that no one speaks anymore. You already knew modern French is derived from ancient Latin, right?"

"Yes, that's why they call it a Romance language," Draco asserted.

"Exactly. But in between modern French and ancient Latin, there were a lot of other languages. Gaulish came out of roughly the same area. There are also lots of old regional French dialects, like Francien, Picard, and Norman. Then in the south of France, you had the Provençal dialects, like Languedocien and Auvergnat. With your background, since you already know French and Latin, I'd say you should try studying some Old French."

"But then I have to wait until I've learned a whole different language before I can start using a Word of Power," Draco complained. "My father told me that your father was using one by his second month in the Faerielands, while my grandfather couldn't manage it at all."

"Well, my father wasn't exactly typical by anyone's standard," Emily said. "Judging yourself by his example is kind of like getting upset because you're not as good at Transfiguration as Professor McGonagall."

"But my father told me that if it takes any longer than about six months, you probably can't do it. Not ever."

Emily sighed. "All right... there is some truth to what your father told you, I'm afraid. But a lot of humans can't do it, Draco – some of the top students at this school haven't managed it. In the meantime, you'll just learn to perform the Faery arts with your wand, like any other sort of magic."

"But... I have to. My father... no one in our family has ever managed it, and we've been Tithesmen going back four generations. My father really wants me to do it." The boy's serious eyes met hers. "You're his friend, you know how he is. He always wants me to be the best at everything."

"For what it's worth – you're the best fencer at this school," Emily confided – and was rewarded with the sight of the boy's face lighting up in a rare, genuinely happy grin. "You can tell your father I said that, too, but don't be repeating it to anyone here at school or I'll deny it completely."

"Better than Potter?" he asked with a flash of his father's smirk.

"Harry could give you a good run for your money, but you practice more and enjoy it more. I think Harry will probably drop fencing the second he can play Quidditch again fifth year."

"His loss," Draco said scornfully.

Emily laughed. "It sounds like you've got your work cut out for you, then. Perhaps you can drop by the library today and ask Madam Pince to help you pick out some ancient language texts so you can get started."

Draco rolled his eyes in anticipation of all the work ahead, but he didn't complain aloud. Then he stopped, just as he was turning to leave. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"I heard Mrs. Rosier talking to my parents at my Grandmother's birthday party. Did you really whack her with an etiquette book at Flourish and Blotts?"

The boy really did have his father's smirk, didn't he – Emily blushed intensely.

"I didn't whack her with it," she said. "Mrs. Rosier was just being a bit obtuse about a matter of etiquette, so I... recommended a book to her, is all."

"Oh, come on. What really happened? I won't tell anyone," Draco promised.

"I'll have no impertinence out of you, young man – that's my story and I'm sticking to it," she said, with an ironic warning look.

"Mrs. Rosier is such a bloody cow – Pansy's mum hates her too," the boy said. "I wish I could have seen you do that."

"Draco... !" But she couldn't help laughing, against all teacherly propriety, which only made Draco Malfoy smirk all the worse. He quickly made his exit, grinning wickedly.

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Toward the end of April, Emily received another little urgent post owl from Lucius – a parchment envelope affixed to a tiny box. His letter read:

Darling,

So, what are you doing for Beltane this year?

It so happens that everyone is going to be in Paris that week for one of their orgies of Galleon spending. That leaves me all alone in the country this weekend, longing to chase you down all these dark corridors.

Enclosed please find a small token of my esteem – which will also act as a Portkey. Friday night at half-seven p.m. – go somewhere private, and put it on. Don't bother packing anything but a toothbrush.

I simply can't wait to give you the grand tour. The grounds are all in bloom.

Emily fell back into the cushioned window seat, that letter pressed to her heart. She imagined Lucius, all alone at Malfeasant. Just the two of them, with that grand manor as a setting for their mutual indulgences. He had promised her the grand tour, and now he had found the opportunity, just like he said he would. "It so happens" nothing – more than likely he had contrived this for weeks, so that he could spend Beltane with her again.

Then she remembered the tiny box that had accompanied the letter and began unwrapping it very carefully. Lucius had said that this item, whatever it was, would act as a Portkey, and she didn't want to touch it and be transported too soon by its magic.

Inside that box was a ring... in the shape of a serpent. It was fashioned of platinum, the same as her emerald serpent bracelet, its body crusted with black diamonds, with white diamond eyes.

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The Friday before Beltane dawned bright, warm, and positively glorious.

Emily awoke early, with the sunrise, and spent a wonderfully long time just sitting, leaning on her windowsill with her head pillowed on her arms, feeling the warm skirling wind lifting her hair off her neck, breathing the scents of flower pollen and grass, and watching the sunlight sparkle in the shifting waters of the lake. It felt wonderful to leave off all those heavy, unwieldy clothes and just sit in the sun in a sheer cotton chemise without feeling cold and miserable.

Her classes slipped by very easily that day. She had most of her students off in little groups practicing Glamours, which left her free to sit on the window seat, enjoying the beautiful weather, and to think about what she would wear to greet Lucius. At dinner she took only a ladle of soup, knowing that she would be well entertained that evening. On her way out, she casually mentioned to Dumbledore that she would be away again that weekend – he was by now so used to hearing this sort of report that he very casually smiled and nodded his acknowledgement before segueing right back into conversation with Madame Maxime.

At last, she was alone in her apartments after supper, freshly bathed and coiffed, oiled and powdered, wearing a lacy chemise and clasping sheer black stockings to her garters. Sometime during her last class of the day, she had decided to wear an especially racy little black spidersilk frock that covered her stocking tops by a bare two inches – as per Lucius's preferences, she had dispensed with knickers altogether.

"Well well well," Emily's mirror said, as she was giving herself a final glance-over in preparation to leave. "Nobody would deny that you've got the legs for that dress, my dear, but you'd best resign yourself to standing all night."

She smiled insolently at her own reflection. "No worries. It's not as though I'll be wearing it long."

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As was now her custom, Emily covered her seductive dress with a long cloak before leaving – but tonight she had chosen a trailing opera cloak of such fine silk that she didn't think walking through the great front foyer in only that cloak, and this frock, and without knickers on, would be quite proper. So, she did what any amorous Faerie would have done and made the walk down to the gate that marked the end of the Apparition wards completely Obscured.

Just beyond the gate, she brought out the black diamond ring, and made to slip it on her finger – but then paused, stopping herself in mid-gesture. For a moment, she had been about to slip the black serpent ring onto her third finger, left hand. It had seemed natural, because the only ring she had ever worn before had been a slender platinum wedding band, for what now seemed like a very short time.

Then she shifted the black serpent into her left hand, and slid it onto the third finger of her right hand – and immediately, the familiar hooking tug of a Portkey slid into her stomach and jerked her forward, toward Malfeasant, and Lucius.

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The Portkey transported her to a terrace just off the main hall on the east side of the house – a terrace bordered about by full-blooming roses lit to nearly glowing crimson by the light of the waning sunset. Lucius was waiting for her on a low stone bench, dressed in the casual déshabillé of a black silk shirt and robes, his loose hair blowing gently in the breeze. He greeted her with a kiss. "Happy Beltane, love. Now, I believe you wanted to see the gardens?"

Someone in the Malfoy family was fond of roses – the grounds were ablaze with them. Red hybrid teas surrounded the house in classic Tudor rose beds; as the grounds extended toward the orchards and woods, they gave way to a multitude of other colours and sizes, from tiny silver blossoms, to cream-yellow blooms, edged with pink, that were nearly the size of cabbages. Farther along were copses of rambling rose, lilac, and wisteria vines, climbing on the trunks of trees and over loggias and arches. At the edge of the vast gardens was the splendid old-growth forest she remembered from the day of the hunt, a thick growth of majestic oaks and conifers, here and there with beds of wildflowers and mushrooms sprung up around their roots. The lawns were so carefully kept they were like lush velvet carpet.

Lucius led her down the paths, seeming to greatly enjoy her honest delight at the garden's prolific beauty. "Come now," he said, after an hour's walk around the grounds. "Let's go have some supper."

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He led her into the grand dining hall she remembered from the Hallowe'en weekend. The massive supper table, built to hold platters of whole roast pig at medieval banquets, looked much more cosy and inviting set with only two place settings of fine bone china and antique silver. Lucius took his place at the head of the table, with Emily at his right hand.

A moment after they took their seats, any number of covered silver platters and tureens appeared on the table. There was a profusion of luxuriant dishes, prepared with the kind of august simplicity Arcadians loved. Sevruga caviar to start, then a rich green turtle soup, and a salad of wild mixed greens that tasted as though they had been gathered that day; followed by black truffle soufflé, lobster tail poached in butter, velvety slices of seared venison – all paired with a perfect wine. The flavours and textures piled on each other like some Rabelaisian orgy of sensual bliss, until she was inhaling the aromas of an after-dessert snifter of Armagnac, and feeling very tipsy and coquettish. "I was trying to approximate one of Gwydion's nine course banquet menus, but unfortunately without Gwydion's cooking staff or his wine cellar," Lucius said apologetically.

"No need to apologise, this is wonderful, darling. Really." She reclined carelessly in her seat, crossing one knee over the other. Lucius's gaze was frankly drawn to the glimpse of lacy black stocking top and white thigh revealed just beneath that weightless little skirt – she laughed softly and preened under his gaze.

During dinner, Lucius had been confiding any number of delicious, sensitive secrets about Ministry business to her – it was endlessly titillating to know that she was privy to information any number of journalists, like that vile Rita Skeeter, would give their eye-teeth for. "Word's out that Bartemious Crouch has just about worked himself into an emotional breakdown of some sort – he's left the International Magical Cooperation in the care of that simpering yes-man Percy Weasley, and Weasley's such an inexperienced little dullard that the whole department's gone to hell. Everyone's noticed it," Lucius laughed. "The best part is, I'm now on the verge of convincing Cornelius to give me leave to create a Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation now. Once I get the order to do so, I would get to choose my own staff."

He turned to her with the air of offering something delectable to her, tracing his fingers down her knee. "So I was thinking... rather than labour at Hogwarts, trying to hammer your arts into the heads of dullards like the Longbottom boy, you could come and work for me. You would be improving the lot of the Faery community every day – and, you could be certain that the next person to take an Arcadian work visa wouldn't need to go through the same absurd rigmarole International Magical Cooperation put you though. Imagine the next Faeries to apply for work papers walking into that office and encountering you, not that narrow-minded Barty Crouch and his lapdog Weasley."

"So would I actually have a job in this new department, or would my duties be performed largely on my knees under your desk?" she asked – not sure what exactly was making her feel so bold and what was making her skin flush like this. He was still stroking her knee, and she was possessed with the sudden, overpowering desire to raise his hand to her lips and suck his forefinger into her mouth.

"If you wanted to spend some time on your knees under my desk, I should do my best to accommodate you. And I do hope you would let me spend some time under your desk as well – I know my work performance can only improve the more I have your thighs around my ears," he said smoothly. "As my second in command, we would get to see so very much of each other. And there would be no way for Narcissa to object, because it would all be work-related, you see."

Narcissa. Emily had half forgotten she existed. She was having a difficult time remembering that he actually was married these days, even when she came face to face with Lucius's wife. Narcissa had started to seem more like a prudish older sister who didn't want disreputable creatures like Faeries in the house, not unlike Elsie and Priscilla. Lucius never wore his wedding ring in her presence – he wasn't wearing it now.

"What are you feeling right now, love?" His voice was a soft, insinuating whisper.

"It's... " Her skin was hectically flushed; even under the tissue-light silk of her dress, she could feel the faintest film of sweat beginning on her neck, between her shoulder blades. "It's hot in here."

The unshockable grey gaze raked over her with undisguised appetite. "It certainly is."

"Lucius... what did you do?" She reached into the caviar bowl for a fragment of ice, and held it against the hollow of her throat.

He laughed. "Oh? Is it so impossible that you might be excited by my mere presence, love?"

"Of course not – but... " The icy water droplets slithering down between her breasts were setting her every nerve ending alight. "This has to be some kind of magic. Don't tell me it isn't."

"Well... I might possibly have put a drop or two of... timed-release multi-stage aphrodisiac potion in the wine," he said, smiling especially charmingly at her. "You'll only become more aroused as its effect builds."

"Lucius!" Emily stared at him, shocked. "You might have at least asked me – "

He chuckled wickedly, swirling the brandy in his glass. "I wanted to surprise you."

She pressed the ice to one overheated temple. "I can't imagine why someone with your looks and your charm needs to slip aphrodisiacs to women."

"Please. It's the only way to get Narcissa to take off her bloody corset." He set down the brandy glass, took her hand and brought her up out of her chair – in another second she had glued herself to him. A long draught of kiss from his lips filled her with the most heavenly relief for just a moment, and then he was drawing her along one of the corridors. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."

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Lucius led Emily down the corridor, up and then down a maze of stone steps, down another covered gallery, down into a vast chamber with an ornate arched ceiling. Torches flickered to life a moment after they entered, illuminating a room full of stern, blond men, who looked down on her forbiddingly – she gasped, and clung to Lucius's arm.

"Relax, love. This is the family portrait gallery of some of our more notable ancestors," Lucius said, with a low chuckle. "Not to worry, the family has never commissioned the sort of painting that can speak, so none of them will be able to tell anyone about what they've seen here tonight. We've never been fond of a lot of chatter from our pictures and mirrors in this house."

Emily took a deep breath, surveying her surroundings again, to find that she wasn't facing a hostile crowd, as had been her first impression, but a long gallery of framed canvases, each of which had as its subject a fair-haired man, looking very much to the manor born. Here and there were sofas, carved chairs, and a round velvet divan in the centre of the room, where an observer could sit and look at all the paintings in turn.

Lucius paused in front of a large canvas of a breathtakingly handsome, dazzlingly fair man in sumptuous eleventh-century nobleman's dress – and that nobleman raked a long, appraising glance at Emily as she approached. "This is Gilles de Malfoi, one of the earliest Norman wizard lords in our family. Back in the day, he was such a devout practitioner of prima noctis that most of the best families in this part of the country are still predominantly his shade of blond. No one knows exactly which one of the cuckolds killed him."

He led her along the wall, pointing out notables and dropping juicy titbits of their scandalous histories. Another blond, patrician portrait stole a glance at Emily that made her arms feel very bare and her skirt feel very short. "That was my paternal great-great-uncle, Saturnius Malfoy – he was a great believer in that family tradition of men in their thirties marrying teenage virgins that was so popular in the last half of the nineteenth century, and is still perpetrated by Emmitt Parkinson and his ilk. Uncle Saturnius was so fond of marrying seventeen-year-old girls that he did it twice – sired his seventh son in his sixties, the old goat."

He led her up to another canvas, bringing her so close that its subject, who resembled Lucius closely enough to be his father, could have reached out and touched her had he been three-dimensional. "This is my paternal grandfather, Cupidus Malfoy. He was an envoy to the giants, and also one of the family Tithesmen. Another great admirer of the Fae."

From the look the subject of that canvas gave her, Emily was left with the feeling that Cupidus Malfoy had indeed been a great admirer of the Fae, of Faery women in particular, and in the most fleshly sense. She wavered back against Lucius's comforting warmth, glad of his arm around her. "Forgive me for saying, love, but I'd say some of your ancestors are looking at me like they were starving, and I was dinner."

Lucius chuckled deliciously. "Of course they are. They were men who enjoyed their pleasures, and being Malfoys, there was no lack of it offered to them. I have to admit, our family has turned out its share of notorious rakes and cads."

"Imagine that," she said, with a knowing look back at him.

"I'll have to tell you all of their stories sometime – it's a tale to put the most lurid Gothic novel to shame. And I've been absolutely wooden with the desire to fuck you in front of all of them for the last month or so." His hand slid down onto her breast as he spoke, but his tone was so casual that he might have been commenting on the brushstroke technique used on the canvas in front of them.

"What... you mean here? In front of – "

"Yes, in front of all of them. Let the sons of bitches watch – it's not as though they didn't do the same every chance they got when they were alive."

"Wait, but... " But it was far too easy to completely suspend her own will when she was with him. Lucius was so sure of everything, at every moment, even when he gently eased her down onto the velvet divan, leaned between her thighs, and deftly unfastened his trousers in one lithe movement. She slid a hand down into his clothes – to discover that "wooden with desire" had been an apt description indeed for his current state. He thrust luxuriously into her, hands strong on her hips.

"There you are, little slut... " She could feel the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes on her as intensely as the hot press of her lover's body above her, his lips on her neck.

All those Malfoy ancestors, forever watchful, forever mute, now staring as their sun-god heir ravished a Faerie in the heart of their ancestral home. They had to know Lucius had a wife, the fairest Pure-Blood ever seen... but now he was spending his passions with a ferally beautiful creature so alien that her blood ran blue as rivers, whose biology was such that to win her favours promised hundreds of nights of indulgence without consequence. No wonder her kind was both so coveted and despised here. Emily hid her face in Lucius's shoulder, her skin burning with humiliation, even as her treacherous body strained up to him for more, clamouring to be used harder.

Some of the blond, patrician ancestor lords were scandalised, disgusted, while others looked on them with lecherous nostalgia or open covetousness. Gilles de Malfoi looked as though he thought he could have done it ever so much better, if given the chance; Saturnius Malfoy frankly stared, looking as though he would have taken Lucius's place in an instant.

Perhaps one day Lucius himself would be a watchful, silent painted image on these walls, but for now he had flesh and blood, and he made the most of it in such form as to make his most depraved ancestor proud. Emily had begun to feel the potency of the potion he had slipped to her unawares even more intensely now – she couldn't recall feeling like this since adolescence, when her body suddenly began to crave the touch of a healthy male more than anything else. Overpowering arousal thrummed in her temples, between her thighs – then the orgasm surged up inexorably, and she didn't care who was watching.

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Of course it wouldn't be Beltane unless one could drink wine by the light of a great bonfire, with a beautiful amour in one's arms. Emily was more used to this sort of thing outdoors, with grass and earth under her bare feet, quaffing a Third Kingdom fuil óg straight from the bottle. However, a cold glass of fine white Bordeaux by the light of a huge blaze in Malfeasant's reception hall, while lying on a green velvet chaise with Lucius in her arms, was an enticing variation on the usual scenario.

Immediately after catching her breath and regaining her composure in the portrait gallery, she had been overwhelmed with the desire to be gone from there. Lucius hadn't been anywhere near as self-conscious – indeed, he had given every indication of wanting to remain there until he had gathered his energies for a second act – but finally he had humoured her.

Emily could feel the aphrodisiac potion still at work in her veins; it was now a bare hour after the encounter in the gallery, and her skin felt feverish, wildly sensitive to the slightest touch. The featherlight touch of Lucius's fingertips trailing up her arm sent a jolt through her entire body.

"My word, love, that potion is just insidious," she said, holding the cool glass of wine to the side of her neck. "Where the bloody hell do you find something like that?"

Lucius looked the picture of contentment, reclining in her arms with the ease of a large golden cat. He had not bothered to button his shirt after emerging from the gallery, and the firelight glinted on the scant blond down on his chest. "If suitably motivated, Severus brews it up as a little gift for his married friends, dear chap that he is. Careful he doesn't sneak some into your tea of an evening at work, or he could have you at his mercy."

"Oh for pity's sake, darling, if you start talking about Severus bloody Snape, I'll have a temporary bout of total frigidity." This increased heart rate and quickened breathing also made her more susceptible to sudden flares of temper, it seemed. "He's been awful lately. The man seems to be making a career out of being a pain in my arse."

"Has he," Lucius said in his usual satisfied drawl, slanting her a devious grin. "Tell me the truth – I just know you're ever so hot for him underneath it all. Those bristling eyebrows and that dastardly glower just drive you mad, don't they?"

"Lucius! Stop it, you're being dreadful." She wanted to talk about anything other than Severus Snape at that moment.

"Yes, I am dreadful," Lucius said impishly. "He isn't as bad as his father though – his father was one of the most profoundly horrible men I've ever met. Believe me, when compared to Snape Senior, my dear little Cousin Severus seems a perfect lamb."

"Really. I can't imagine that between the two of them, his mother was very happy," Emily said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, she wasn't. Mrs. Snape was a very sweet woman, but the sort who was forever banging herself up in unexplained accidents and wearing high collars and long sleeves in summer, if you know what I mean. Poor little thing used to all but jump at her own shadow."

Emily stared at him, horrified. "You think her husband beat her?"

"I'm sure that he beat her, and often. I'm positive he did the same to Severus," Lucius said calmly. "From what I can tell, all the man ever did was sit about brooding over his business losses, nurse old grudges, and terrorise his wife and son. Severus used to coax my father into letting him and his mother spend every minute they could at Malfeasant when he was younger – anything was better than home, I suppose. After his mother died, he used to all but beg me to invite him home with me for school holidays." He sounded as though the idea of Professor Snape trying to persuade his wealthy uncle and cousin to let him spend vacations with their family to escape his own horribly abusive father was the most entertaining weakness anyone could have.

"That's awful," Emily said sincerely, her brow creasing with concern. "I can imagine how he felt – you remember how hard Bill Blake's father was on him, after his mother died. Once some men lose their wives, they take all their grief out on their children. Wasn't there anything someone in the family could do to help him?"

Lucius glanced at her with a pained expression. "Oh, I don't know – it was a long time ago. Do let's talk about something else, all this rattling on about abusing one's family is horribly depressing. I've never understood why people abuse their children – my boy's one complaint is that he's only got a Nimbus 2001 instead of a Firebolt. I'd much rather spoil the people I love." He caressed her thigh, making her shiver.

"I know," she said, fondly stroking his hair.

"But you, you're the difficult one. With everyone else it's easy – they're practically shoving lists of demands under my nose the day after Christmas. But when I offer you anything and everything, all you want is a hot bath and a walk in the garden," he said, sounding a touch disappointed.

"What can I say, I'm a very materially satisfied person. Actually, back in September when I had to pack my things and come here, just having to move all my stuff was such a chore that I started wishing that I was a bit less materially satisfied."

Lucius didn't look entirely thrilled with this answer. He was silent for a long moment, pensively watching the fire and sipping from his glass, her arm loosely draped over his shoulder. Emily looked at his averted profile, at the black diamond serpent glinting on her right hand – and remembered with some embarrassment that she had not yet thanked him for his gift.

How used he must be to expressing his affection by giving people things, she mused. Nimbus 2001s for his son's entire Quidditch team in Draco's second year – of course she had heard about that bit of extravagant generosity through the Hogwarts gossip grapevine. Then two years later, the boy was complaining that he didn't have a Firebolt. Narcissa apparently required dinner, the opera, and something from the family jeweller's to entice her into bed with her husband, and even then, it seemed she only acquiesced reluctantly. It would seem that real gratitude was in short supply in this man's life, she reflected.

"What could I possibly ask you for after you've just given me this gorgeous diamond ring," she said, caressing his arm. "Thank you so much, love. You're kinder to me than I deserve."

He turned an adorable look of reproach at her. "You're making me feel a bit useless here, darling. If you could have anything at all, what would it be? Tell me."

"I'd settle for peace in our time."

"I'm serious," he protested mildly.

"So am I," she replied. "If the Mother Goddess told me that she would grant me one boon, I know exactly what I'd ask. 'Please, oh Lady of the Worlds, make sure that no Arcadian Orc ever attacks another Faerie. I want for you to end the conflicts between us once and for all, make them happy with the lands that they have, and make them leave us alone forever. Could you please arrange for the 3022 war to have been the last one, and make my profession completely obsolete, so I can settle down and write treatises on pre-Christian Celtic mythology for the rest of my life. Thank you.'"

Lucius laughed softly. "I'll see what I can do." Then he set his wineglass aside and become very absorbed in kissing her neck, his fingers trailing up her thigh again, hooking under her garter.

"Thank you, my love, you're most kind... " Her skin was igniting under the touch of his lips, breaking into goosebumps under the heat of his breath. The scent of purest male lust filled her breath, and she clutched his shoulders, delicately curled her nails against his back.

I've thought of something I'd like, she whispered into his ear. I want your cock.

She needed to ask no more of him than that. A second later, he had forcibly bent her over the chaise, velvet under her belly, brocade cushions under her cheek. He forced her thighs apart with one knee, and poised himself above her, letting her feel just the hard silk of his tip. Is this what you want?

Yes, she breathed. Yes, please...

Then beg for it, slut, came the drawling whisper – and she did, with melting, desperate eloquence, straining back to take him, all but ripping the upholstery from the chaise beneath her. Her lover was pleased with this supplication – in return, his full weight sank onto her back, his full length into the slick warmth inside her. He worked her hard, cruelly; all the while murmuring adoring filth into her ear, the back of her neck. That day in the pub, I never saw anyone who needed a man in her as badly as you did – yes – you gorgeous whore – oh God, the way you back onto it – harder – yessss –

If Malfeasant had a voice, if those walls of carved stone and polished wood could talk, they could have described the ravishing of any number of young women over the centuries – village maidens corrupted by noble lords, teenage brides brought to the altar, then deflowered. But tonight, this Walpurgisnacht, it was no virginal servant girl or petulant aristocratic bride that the Malfoy patriarch was embracing, but the daughter of a Goddess worshipped with wine, revelry, and unrestrained licentiousness on this her highest of holy days. They drew this frenzy out for a long, sweaty, sore, blissful time, until he built the tension within her to shrieking inevitability, spilling his own lust into her shuddering body a moment later.

Afterward, they collapsed on the Oriental rug before the fire, spent and exhausted, and lay in each other's arms for some measureless amount of time. Emily distantly remembered that it was here, before this very hearth, that she had seen Lucius and all those grim, serious men engrossed in that deadly earnest conversation at the house party in November. She thought about indulging her curiosity and asking him what they were all talking about, but then realised that she couldn't ask that question without admitting that she had been sneaking around his house Obscured, spying on him and his guests.

She decided to keep her curiosity to herself.

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Emily must have dozed briefly then, curled against Lucius's side before the fire. She awoke to him gently nudging her, whispering, "Come on, love, this floor's damned uncomfortable. Let's go to bed."

"Yes, let's," she agreed instantly, pressing her lips to his. He smelled of wine, brandy, sweat, that lime water he liked – and underneath it all, a maddening tang of testosterone-sodden lust. That damned potion had now amplified her senses so strongly that only a whiff of male interest provoked a reaction in her – and the man with her was extremely interested. As such, he had a time of it getting her up from the rug before the fire, up three flights of stairs to a vast, lavishly decorated bedroom. Pale wax tapers ignited as they entered, illuminating richly draped windows that reached the ornate ceiling, massive antique furniture, a bearskin rug before the fireplace. Central to the room was a great four-poster bed, draped and covered with ink-green velvet – he had barely laid her on it before she was pulling him down over her again.

"Wait," he whispered, detaching her hands from his lapels. "I think I'd like to see you naked." His hand went to her thigh, unclasped her garter with a deft, practiced gesture. He undressed her slowly, covetously, until she was lying on the velvet coverlet in nothing but her bare, shivering skin. "That's how I like to see you, a precious thing displayed on velvet... I've always said you should wear as little clothing as possible."

She sat up, started to push the unfastened shirt and robes from his shoulders, but he stopped her, burying his lips in her neck, then lower... she sank down onto the velvet pillows as his intent became obvious. But instead of reaching satiety, she seemed only to become more aroused with every stroke of his tongue, every time he brought her to another climax. Finally she wrenched herself away from him, trembling.

"How many stages does this bloody potion have?" she snapped.

"It's different for everyone who takes it," he said, brazenly wiping a drop of wetness from his upper lip. "For some, only one... for others, as many as three or four. I'm curious as to what effect it has on you – I've never tried it with a Faerie before."

"So pleased I could be your damn guinea pig," she flashed back. Her heart was pounding too damned hard, her breath coming too fast. She was looking at the man in front of her with absolutely predatory lust. Now and then, after her oestrus was over, she would fantasise about what sex must feel like during that state of wildly heightened receptivity – but as she never wanted to become pregnant, she had resigned herself to never experiencing it. But this... this encompassed oestrus, and went beyond it – oestrus to the exponential, animal power.

"I'm pleased you could be, too," he replied, with a predatory look of his own. "I like you writhing like a cat in heat – you're so easy to take advantage of like this."

"Really." Then she had thrown him onto his back, her full weight draped over him, pressing his wrists to the bed. Letting him feel a touch of warning strength, just to cover the insecurity she felt at that moment. That damned potion rendered her moods more inflammatory as well, and the habitual arrogance of Lucius's manner was especially pronounced tonight. Now she needed him too much, he had rendered her too vulnerable. She craved him, and she hated him. "So you think I'm a whore and a slut, do you?"

"Yes," he said, absolutely unperturbed. "But I adore sluts, they're absolutely my favourite sort of woman. You can be as much of a selfish whore as you like with me."

"You really like corrupting people, don't you," she growled. It was not a question.

In another second, he had broken her hold with surprising deftness, and skilfully wrestled her beneath him. Perhaps under this kind of duress, she wasn't fighting him as much as she might have – or perhaps Lucius had become more experienced at this sort of thing since his youth.

"Come off it, Miss Knight of the Realm – you're just as corrupt as I am." He pushed her onto her back, pinning her supine beneath his greater weight. "I brought you here because this is where I spent my wedding night... this is where I deflowered my wife and sired my son. And now I'm going to lay you on this same bed, my Lady, and fuck you until you can't walk straight."

She half-resisted as he roughly covered her again, but when he did, she wondered how she had ever felt complete without him inside her. He liked this sense of corruption, seemed to revel in profaning his marriage bed. The flawless mantle of perfect composure was slipping – now there was a sense of atavistic freedom to him that she had never seen before. He was glorious – and he frightened her. The Greek prince Paris, consummating his illicit seduction of Helen of Troy, might have looked like this.

More lewd endearment, and his tongue, delved into her ear. I was in bed with my new wife, and all I wanted was to have you on the hay again. I'm supposed to devote every drop of sperm I have to carrying on the family name, but I'd rather spend it in your belly, came the brutal, urgent whisper. You like hearing that, don't you...

Yes...

Yes, she did – it was the purest, worst kind of hubris to imagine Lucius on his wedding night, making love to his perfect new bride, but lusting for her. Now she could only strain against him, as inarticulate as an animal. She now understood what motivated cats to hoarsely yowl their receptivity into the night, hoping for some relief. This arousal was unbearable, painful; she was pleading with him so fervently for release from this insane tension that she was actually crying with it. Lucius kissed the tears from her face.

Tell me you love me, he whispered.

Oh by the Mother, was that all he wanted. At this rate, she had been half convinced that he was going to demand that she carry his children, make her sign some unholy contract in blood.

I love you... She couldn't repeat it too often, or impassionedly enough. Later, recalled in a more tranquil state of mind, the words would seem impersonal, more the plaints of a maenad priestess to the god Dionysus than a heartfelt endearment from Emily Swain to her lover, Lucius Malfoy. At the time, however, there was no denying that she felt every syllable of it.

She saw him throw his head back in triumph, his lips curling back over his teeth in snarling bliss – and then he couldn't hold himself back any longer either. A torrent of words coming from him, words she barely registered – littlefuckingbitchthinkyoucanignoremedoyouyou'remineyouneedme – and the sensation of bared teeth against her neck. He pinioned her wrists against the pillow above her head, making her gasp, the cruel strength of him making her shudder, fingers biting into her wrists, teeth biting into her neck, rising and falling like a savage, exultant animal above her.

Then her entire body was racked with orgasm, and rational thought was impossible.

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Who knew what the Malfoy house-elves, who had crept out to clear the dinner table and tidy the disarranged cushions and furniture, thought of the ecstatic, agonised feminine screams issuing from their master's bedchamber that night.

Perhaps they had heard something like them before. Perhaps they weren't sure what would come of cries like that – whether the woman screaming would receive an orgasm, delivery from the pain of childbirth, or be deprived of life entirely. Perhaps they weren't certain whether it was sweat and semen they would later have to wash from the luxurious bed linens, or a welter of blood and amniotic fluid, or worse.

Perhaps they had heard all of it before.

But a good house-elf keeps its silence.

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Emily thought later that perhaps she passed out for awhile immediately following her final orgasm that night – perhaps the blood pressure fluctuation following such a cataclysmic release of sexual tension brought on a faint. She woke up in Lucius's bed very late the next morning, feeling tired and sore, as if after an extremely intensive workout.

Lucius was still asleep beside her, looking like some roseate god of bliss, one arm draped around her hips, the other lolling palm up on the pillow above his head. She let her gaze linger on him – there was a certain charm to seeing Lucius asleep, without that mantle of perfect composure. But a moment later, her attention was caught by a shadow on the inside of his arm. She raised her head from the pillows for a closer look.

Just a pattern of darkened skin on the inside of his left forearm – an oval central shape bisected by a scrolling S-curve – as though he had recklessly gotten a tattoo in his youth, and then had it removed later. It was just odd that she had never noticed it before, when she had seen him in various states of undress so often of late. Did he have a tattoo when he lived in Arcadia? She couldn't remember.

She sat up and stretched, putting up a hand to rake her mussed hair out of her face – and her breath caught as a sharp pain lanced through her shoulder when she lifted her arm. Emily craned a look back over her own shoulder, discovering scabbed bite marks in the area of her collarbone and shoulder. She couldn't see the back of her shoulder, but it felt very tender. There was dried blood on the sheet below her – quite a bit of it, actually, she thought, her brows knitting together. As much as she could understand the desire to gorge one's carnal appetites on a lover's flesh, there was definitely something worrisome about being bitten so hard that a bloodstain the size of a saucer was left on the sheets. During the previous night, she had been so caught up in the insatiable appetites the potion had induced that she hadn't really noticed the pain till now.

When Lucius wrapped his arms around her from behind, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"It's just me," Lucius drawled, chuckling. "Let's have a look at that – oh dear, it does seem I got a bit carried away last night, doesn't it?"

"I'll say you did," she snapped, with a hard look at him. "I shall call you Count Dracula from now on, I swear."

"Just hold on a minute, love," he said reassuringly, then opened a drawer of the bedside table, and came out with a stoppered bottle of robin's-egg blue potion and a white handkerchief – in a moment, he was gently wiping a cloth soaked in Healing Potion over her shoulder. After perhaps half a minute of intense itching, her skin appeared unblemished and completely healed over, with only the bloodstains on the linens left to show that she had ever been bitten.

"There, you're fine," he purred, kneading her shoulders from behind. "No need to get testy."

Emily was unappeased. "Do you always keep Healing Potion in a drawer of your bedside table?" she asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, yes, actually. During the drier months I'll sometimes get nosebleeds during the night," he said mildly. His response was so plausible and immediate that it had to be the truth – she was embarrassed for her moment of suspicion.

Lucius had her favourite breakfast sent up on the dot of nine a.m. – oeufs de caviare, whole-wheat baguette, and Veuve Cliquot, plus a large pitcher of ice water, as both of them needed to do a bit of rehydrating after the previous night. Lucius put on another of those luxurious bespoke silk robes and wrapped another one around her. They ate on the balcony overlooking the rose garden; upon returning to the bedroom, the bed was made up with fresh, clean linens, as though the dark blue bloodstain had never existed at all.

Sometime later, he drew her bath for her, towelled her dry. He was in such a sweet, boyish, glowing mood that morning, almost like a young bridegroom on his honeymoon.

"You know, if you had just told me there was an aphrodisiac potion you liked, I would have tried it at least once," Emily said, as he combed her hair out afterward.

"I'm sorry, dear, I really thought you would enjoy it," he protested mildly. "You certainly seemed as though you liked it at dinner. And in the gallery, and in the hall, and in bed – "

"Well yes, I did enjoy it, but that's not the point. The point is, there was no need to be so underhanded about it. I can't help but feel manipulated when I'm given something unawares, is all."

"Manipulated? Please – this, from the woman who's had me wrapped around her finger from the moment I met her," he said, with fond, mocking reproach. "What do we have to manipulate each other over? I've always been completely open about my desire to shag you into unconsciousness from the first, if you'll remember. Really, my love, I'm not going to demand that you remain loyal to me unto death now – I merely wanted to hear you say you loved me at that moment. It was a very highly charged moment, if you recall."

"How could I forget." She felt a surge of gratitude to him for making it all so easy. To hear him say it, grandiose promises of love had simply been another way of adding intensity to their coupling, like the potion, like the feeling of all those judgmental, libidinous oil portraits watching them.

Lucius brushed a soft kiss over her cheek. "Some moments are simply so intense that one wants to feel every part of you is accessible – whether it's your mouth, that luscious quim of yours, or your heart. Come now, it's not like we're engaged or anything – that wouldn't suit you, or me."

Emily laughed. "You're right – the reason why this suits me so well is that there isn't any chance of it ever being serious."

"Oh?" She had apparently agreed with him too emphatically, because now he looked sulky. "There, now you've reduced me to saying that you don't have to love me so long as you keep using me in bed. Are you satisfied now, or do I have to lick your boots as well... ?"

The sight of this gorgeous, endlessly self-assured man pouting because she didn't care enough for him was adorable – of course she then had to twine her arms around his neck and kiss his pouting mouth, and reassure him with protestations of her love and adoration, until he was happy again.

Late that afternoon, Lucius walked her to the end of the Malfeasant Apparition wards. He only let her Apparate back to Hogwarts after making plans for their next weekend together, and after several of those luscious good-bye kisses; the kind that let her know what an agony it was to let her out of his arms.

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Lucius hurried back up to the house after seeing Emily off. Some time later, he was in the main reception hall, dressed in impeccable robes, his Faerie-tousled hair smoothed to its usual perfection. He reclined the chaise where he had recently been so memorably entertained, sipping from a glass of fine old Napoleon brandy, and basking in the sight of the luxuriant, moonlit rose garden through the open French doors.

Later that evening, there came the sound of a second Portkey delivering another visitor on the rose-bordered terrace just outside, in the same place Emily had made her appearance earlier. The newcomer approached the open doors with a clomping gait.

"Ah, good old Malfeasant," came a gruff, garrulous voice. "So, is the master of the house about?"

"Hello, Barty, it's good to see you again." Lucius came forward and greeted his visitor with cordial handshake. "Come have a seat, and let's hear all the news," he said, and handed his visitor a snifter of brandy.

"Always a pleasure to drink your liquor, my friend. But first, tell me, how is your little... project going?"

"Couldn't be better. I'll have her panting to be one of us in no time." Lucius grinned and clinked his glass against Crouch's. "Cheers."