Request by anon: Can I request a Lucius Malfoy or a Remus Lupin imagine? With what they do for aftercare or something. Don’t really have any details for this so get creative!
Hope this is what you had in mind. Enjoy my loves. xxx
(Credits to gif owner)
If people would ever have to describe Lucious Malfoy, they certainly wouldn’t use words like ‘caring’, ‘attentive’ or even ‘loving’. But those people didn’t know the Lucius Malfoy (y/n) knew, the man that would cradle her in his arms, after wrecking her for the past few hours, coaxing one moan after the other out of her, all while bruising her soft skin, with those cold lips and those heavy rings of his.
tags: darkfic, smut, dead dove do not eat, inappropriate relationship, age difference, manipulation, possessive lucius malfoy, protective lucius malfoy, violence, hurt/comfort but make it perverse, blood purity prejuidice & pureblood supremacy, loss of virginity, racism, + untagged stuff for spoilers
The crowded corridors at almost nine a.m. were not the best place to be half-asleep. Lenore had barely dragged herself out of the bed and put on her uniform, feeling just as drowsy as she felt the previous night, which had passed in a blink of an eye for her, with absolutely no rest, and the memories of her disturbing dreams as the only proof she had indeed slept. She really needed some coffee, and she had missed breakfast entirely. It was a miracle she wasn’t passing out right then and there. But, despite the continuous yawning, she pushed through, mindlessly getting herself to class.
It was rather loud that morning, with her housemates yelling over her from a distance. It took her a moment and a couple nudges to realize they were actually talking to her, a rare occurrence.
“Ey, good show, Briarwood” yelled Zabini from behind her, before Greengrass added “About bloody time!”
“What the fuck are they on about?” Lenore thought, head down, as she hugged her books to her chest. She hurried up, and was about to reach the classroom door, when she heard a pssst from behind a column. “Oh, fuck them.” Ignoring it was probably for the best, she didn’t have the energy to deal with it now. But another pssst and a call of her name made her turn.
“Lenore!” It was Hannah Abbott, standing sheepishly behind a column to not be seen by the passing Slytherins. Her usually cheerful face creased with an uncharacteristic frown. “Is it true?”
She walked up to her, trying to not seem suspicious, probably failing miserably.
“Is what true?”
“That you hexed Harry Potter.” Hanna's eyes were wide open and practically jumping at her. Even through whispers, she could hear the concern in her voice mix with suspicion and. Something else.
“What?”
“Did you or did you not?” Fear. That's what it was.
“What are you…? No, of course not. Why would I do that?” If there was someone she’d hex, it wouldn't be him. But even if she did have something against Potter, even if she hated him, Lenore wasn't the kind of person to practice magic like that on another student. Other than smaller spells for daily convenience, she barely did any magic at all.
"They're saying he started to have… visions, attacks. Painful ones." Hannah explained, her voice hushed, “and that you had something to do with it. That you're... Into the Dark Arts. They saw you check out a ton of books from the Mind Arts area and the Restricted Section.”
“A ton…? No, I was just –okay, I did check out a couple books. Two of them. One was from the Restricted Section, but I had permission! Professor Snape chose it for me.”
“Snape?” Hannah questioned. It was not really much of a defense. Snape had a reputation of his own, after all.
“It’s for an assignment. I’ve been taking extra assignments to… You know, catch up.” Judging by her expression, Hannah was not believing a single word. It’s not like it was her business, it’s not like they were close friends, and it’s not like she needed to prove herself to her. But Lenore wished, just for now, just this once, that someone would see her as she was. “I can prove it! I have my notes in my room. I’ll get them after class. I still have the books I took. I can show you.”
“That doesn’t prove you didn’t do it.”
Lenore pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance, her headache growing more and more painful. If nothing was going to convince her, then what was the point of arguing? Perhaps it was easier to let everyone believe she had done it. Class was about to start. Why not just let her believe whatever she wanted? She was going to drop it, but another idea took the spotlight in her head.
“I can show you. You can use Legilimens on me! You can see for yourself there's nothing in my head about Harry Potter. That I’m not doing anything to him.” It was a perfect plan. Hanna'd see for herself that she wasn’t lying. She met the Hufflepuff’s gaze, her own eyes blazing with a mix of defiance and desperate honesty. The offer was rash, dangerous even, but it beat being falsely accused. She didn’t have access to Veritaserum –not in the following two weeks at least, and even then, she wasn't going to compromise her project for this– so this was the best option if she truly wanted to be believed. All she needed was to get her mind read, and show her honest intentions.
“Me?” she stammered. “Oh, no, I wouldn't know how to do that. I mean... it's really advanced, isn't it? I wouldn't even know where to begin.”
Well, shit, there goes my one and only plan, Lenore thought. A wave of frustrating despair washed over her. Of course, Hannah wouldn't know how. Most sixth year students wouldn't. It was advanced, that was the whole point of it being assigned to her. Now it seemed like the time to give up.
“Look, I… I don’t really think you did it. I don’t want to. I know you’re not like the rest of them,” she pointed with her chin at the last Slytherins entering the classroom. “Just… don’t be like the rest of them. That’d make us really stupid for defending you.”
There are some emotions that, when overcome by them, can present themselves as hidden behind an ugly mask. One may struggle to figure them out, overwhelmed by the discomfort their unpleasantness causes. Only to realize, after time has passed, that such emotion had been a good one, that there’s no reason to dislike it. And that the problem lies in oneself.
Lenore’s face was red when she excused herself and ran to the doors before they closed. She was ashamed, embarrassed, even angry with Hannah for ambushing her like that. But once she sat in her chair, once she attempted to take notes and ignore her conspiring classmates, it dawned on her that she wasn’t angry with Hannah at all. Her heart was full of a brand-new feeling. She was grateful. Hannah not only wanted to believe in her, but she had also defended her –to whom was not important. There was someone out there who had her back. She still had one question, though.
“That’d make us really stupid for defending you”
Who was ‘us’?
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Climbing up the stairs to the top of the north tower always made Lenore feel slightly nauseous. It wasn’t just the exercise, or the perpetually overheated atmosphere, thick with the scent of a dozen different types of vapours and smokes, but the entire premise of the subject. Divination made, to her, zero sense. It was so easy to spit out nonsense and get a passing grade, it was almost disrespectful to her academic integrity. And though she didn’t deny that correct predictions of the future were indeed possible and incredibly useful –she’d have to be very dense to not believe in it when she was attending a school for literal magic–, she did have her reservations about it being taught. Or at least the way it was taught. Professor Trelawney was well-meaning, but she lacked a certain discipline Lenore thought all good professors should have.
True prophecies, which existed and she had taken care of researching outside of class after her first disappointing third year divination class, were extremely rare. And the possibilities that more than a couple students a year, let alone all students that attended, could successfully ever utilize such knowledge were slim to none. Divination was inaccurate and borderline obsolete, and in her opinion should not have a place in school. But –and Lenore was well aware of this fatal flaw of hers– she couldn’t pass on an opportunity for a good grade. She didn’t like Trelawney, but the professor for some reason liked her. And that was enough. Especially if she wanted to meet the requirements to finish.
Ornithomancy – divination by the observation of birds – was today’s brand of elaborate guesswork. She’d spent the last hour trying to make some sort of cosmic sense of the random flittings of a rather dopey-looking owl outside the tower window.
“Miss Briarwood, my dear,” Professor Trelawney’s misty voice suddenly focused on her, her enormous magnifying spectacles making her eyes swim. “The patterns of the great grey owl that circled the Owlery thrice… what did its journey whisper to you?”
Lenore, who had mostly observed the owl preening and occasionally hooting in what sounded like profound boredom, tried to come up with the sort of answer Trelawney usually favoured. “Professor,” she began, attempting a suitably vague and serious tone, “the owl’s… circular path… seemed to suggest a cycle broken, perhaps… an unexpected return to a previous comfort, and… possibly a heavy workload before the next moon.” That covered most bases.
Trelawney tilted her head, her many shawls rustling. “Yes, yes, the mundane concerns are ever-present, child. But what about the wider landscape? Did the bird’s flight not speak to you of… something else?”
“Uhm, the… The way it dipped its wing towards the Forbidden Forest before ascending towards the sun…” Professor Trelawney’s face illuminated with deep interest, a sign that she was going in the right direction. “It could suggest the carrying of a new burden, a choice that would have painful results, and an unexpected aid in a difficult time.” As soon as she was done blurting out the best combination of good-sounding meaningless words, she let out the breath she was holding and looked at her. Trelawney’s usual kind and attentive expression was replaced by something she had only ever seen caused by other students: disappointment.
The sting of exasperation attacked Lenore’s temples. She was tired, stressed from all her other extra projects, confused by that horrible book, haunted by her own dreams and now school rumours –and on top of that she was supposed to predict life-altering events from a bird’s flight path. Her face contorted in a manic smile. “Professor,” she said, hoping to maintain a respectful tone even as she was completely losing it, “it was an owl. It flew around a bit, probably looking for mice. Am I trying to predict future events based on where a bird decides to scratch its wing? What am I doing here?” The irony she’d been accumulating in all the years of taking that class decided to jump off her mouth, sneaking and spilling right in front of the professor like speech vomit. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “What’s next? Should I foresee that the headmaster will fall off the tower? That a collection of lost and broken trinkets will change the entire wizarding world as we know it? That the fate of everybody here somehow rests on the back of one stubborn child?” She threw her hands up. “It all sounds utterly ridiculous if you ask me!”
The classroom had gone quiet. Trelawney, however, did not look offended. Instead, her magnified eyes widened further, a strange, almost feverish light igniting within them. She glided closer to Lenore, extending two strangely long arms and landing them on her shoulders with strangely long fingers.
“My dear child!” she breathed, her voice trembling with excitement. “There! There it is! The Inner Eye! You resist, you deny, but the sight… it flows through you nonetheless! You perceive the tremors in the Great Web, the echoes of what is to be!” She grasped Lenore’s arm with surprising strength. “You have the gift, child! A true Seer, I sense it! Oh, the potential!”
Lenore stared, aghast at her own outburst and Trelawney’s unexpected reaction. Of course, the nonsensical statements were exactly what she was looking for. She was perplexed, stuck half way between running away from the incredibility of the moment or taking the credit for her fake predictions. But she couldn't if she tried. This was a level of pointlessness she hadn't experienced before. And, at the risk of all her plans failing, she considered for a moment dropping the class entirely.
Trelawney’s expression shifted, a shadow passing over her face. She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There is… a disturbance, my dear. A… a clouding your aura. Something… or someone… seeks to obscure your channels, to muddy the clear waters of your perception. Your mind… it is under siege, I feel. You must clear the pathways, child! Protect your spirit! Before it's devoured, before it's stolen from you”
Lenore’s blood ran cold. She felt suddenly exposed, as if the professor had somehow peeled back a layer of her soul. She was just being weird old Trelawney, as ominous as always. She shouldn't mind her. Should she?
“I… I have to go, Professor,” Lenore stammered, pulling her arms free, desperate to flee.
“Yes, yes,” Trelawney said, patting her arm absently, still looking at her with that unnerving, fervent gaze. “But heed my words, dear. Fate will reveal itself for you again. When it does, do not fight it. Believe. Your Sight is a rare and precious thing. It will protect you, if you let it. Next time, you shall see what the future holds and trust that you'll know.”
She practically stumbled out of the classroom, her heart hammering and palms sweating. Repeating Ornithomancy the following week would be a drag.
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On the flip side, being the first to leave was a good thing. She didn’t have to get stuck on the mass of students descending the stairs. She was quickly at the bottom, and with her natural fast-paced walk, doing great time for her next class. Or she would have if something hadn’t yanked her back by the collar and pinned her to the wall. At first all she saw was the wand pointed at her. Her heart skipped a beat at the blur of platinum blonde hair that appeared. But then she realized that it –obviously– belonged to Draco Malfoy…
“You think you’re so clever, huh? Everybody’s saying you hexed Potter, I bet you’re chuffed to be hogging the spotlight.” The boy looked almost rabid, grabbing her at a distance in both anger and disgust, holding her like a vermin he couldn’t stand the sight of and intended to quickly eliminate.
“Get your hands off me. I didn’t do anything!” Lenore, still confused by the accusation, couldn't help but get a very disturbing thought. One that she’d have to seriously deal with later. Soon; as a priority.
“Of course you didn’t! A coward like you could never do something like that, so I recommend you stop telling people, or you’ll find out what happens.”
Her mouth fell slightly agape, eyebrows up, and eyes as wide as they could go. Draco regarded her for a moment, confused, and let go of her to take more distance. She was sure this was the first time he saw her making that –or any– expression. Lenore laughed –a real, loud, concerning chuckle. Her hands came together in an ironic clap.
“Oh. My. God. You hexed Potter?! I mean, that’s a terrible thing, obviously. But holy shit, this is a first. Even for you. Look at you, not being all talk. You got away with it, pinned it on me, and… What? Now you’re mad people think I did it?” Something about the convoluted situation had her ecstatic, and she couldn’t really figure out why. Her sanity was truly deteriorating.
“I didn’t… just shut up! You think you're rather important now, all of a sudden, do you?. Do us all a favor and remember what you are: nothing,” Malfoy said before he scurried away like a scared little animal and got lost in the corridors.
“Well, that solves that mystery,” Lenore thought, more irritated at the inconvenience than anything. But something much more important popped into her head and impulsed her to move. Because before – just for a second, and completely against her will – it had occurred to her that… She was embarrassed to even admit it to herself, to even invoke the mental image alone. But her mind, in that lapsus, had told her not that she was in an undesired position, but that it was the wrong Malfoy pinning her to a wall.
Her stomach twisted as she practically ran to the library. That wasn’t her, and whatever worm had crept into her brain, whatever this awful monster had planted in her head that day they met, she was going to kill it no matter the cost.
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There was no time for enjoyment, no time to take in the scent of old books and atmosphere of the setting. She moved swiftly across the room, avoiding making eye contact with anybody. Not that she needed to try too hard. Mind Arts Section; she could’ve sworn she saw something last time she was there. She glossed over the different titles. ‘The Interpretation of Dreams…’ There! Right under that one. ‘Emotions and Solutions: An Introduction to Mind Spells’. Her whole weight dropped on the chair as she cracked –almost literaly– the book open.
It was a personal record; she was sure she had never read as fast as she was reading now. She skimmed through irrelevant titles. Basic affective charms, suggestion spells, confusion hexes. It was all so… Introductory. Charms for focus and distraction, emotional dampening, mental clarity, blah blah, blah. And then something caught her eye. Memory Modification. “This could work.”
“The human mind, in its boundless complexity, holds an intricate tapestry of experiences, knowledge, and emotions. Among the most potent brands of magic lies the discipline of Memory Modification. While often presented as a mere branch of spellcraft, the ability to tamper with, implant, or erase the very fabric of one's past – or another's – ventures into territory where the line between healing and irreversible harm blurs with terrifying ease. This section aims to outline the known applications of such magic, always with the gravest warning of the unpredictable consequences that accompany the manipulation of one's core self. The mind is not merely a collection of isolated facts, but a delicate, interconnected web, and even the most precisely cast spell can unravel catastrophic results"
As interesting as the craft was pictured to be, Lenore sighed in disappointment. The only part of it that could work was that of Memory Alterations, “the complex and highly dangerous art of creating false memories or subtly changing existing ones.” Not only did it warn that the one casting the spell would retain knowledge of the original memory. It also did not explain how to do it. If that book had ever contained any page on practical use, it had been removed. And she was back to square one.
Her eyes welled up with tears as she returned the volume to its place. This all had been for nothing. The torture would continue every night, the heavyness of the world would crush her every day, and she was just supposed to take it. “What am I even doing here?” She looked up to the ceiling, somehow wishing the answers were written up there. The only person that could comfort her right now, the only one that had ever truly cared, was so far away. And would never know. She would die before disappointing her mother like this; just the thought of Annabeth finding out what went on in her head… She wouldn’t, it was against everything they both believed in. Not many rules were set in their tiny family of two, but the fact she was letting this man poison her mind like this went against every code. And that’s why she had to sort this situation out as quickly as possible. Before it drove her completely mad.
She was so stuck drowning in her own sorrow, tears clouding her sight, that she almost jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you. Do you think we can talk?”
Lenore quickly wiped her face with the sleeve of her jumper and stared at the boy, attempting to decipher why he would want to talk in these circumstances, after the rumors, and in the middle of the library.
“Hey, Terry. Uhm, sure, what– ” she mumbled. “What did you want to talk about?” One good look at the Ravnclaw, and at the two other students taking some distance behind him and pretending to act normal, told her everything she needed to know. That was “us”. That was her chance at something going well for her. “Alright, lets do this”
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She had heard of the Room of Requirement, but she had never been there before. It seemed awfully convenient, she was jealous they had it at their disposal. Maybe Neville would show her how to use it. If she could prove she was innocent first of course.
Lenore didn’t complain at the arrangement, she didn’t say a word when she first entered the room –a dark version of it, one dim light above the only seat available. The one she was supposed to sit on. She was even excited, expecting to be able to bond with someone finally. To have someone in her corner. But the feeling of cold isolation hit as soon as the doors closed. She didn’t speak, not when Neville and Hannah took their position behind her, not as Terry stood in front of her, wand to her face. She sat down, silently taking her spot.
“So… you’ve done this before?”
“Uh…” Terry’s eyes went from Neville, to Hannah and back to her. He looked so insecure it was almost adorable. At least she’d think so, if he wasn’t about to crack her mind open and pry. “Not many times. But I've studied it by myself.”
A bitter aftertaste coated her tongue at his words. She was really going to let them do this. Just to prove herself… She was going to let this self-appointed advanced student probe her head. And what would he see? What if she couldn’t control what he found there? What if he saw her internal struggle. Or worse, the nightmares. The automatic thoughts that came upon her randomly throughout the day. The times her body had reacted to these thoughts.
“And you believe me?” she said incredulously. If they truly believed they wouldn’t need this. But again, they didn’t have much reason to trust her, did they? She was a Slytherin. She gulped. This had been her idea. This would be good for her, it would show them she was good. That she was different from them.
“We do, we just want to see for ourselves”
She took a deep breath. Controlling her body and mind,sheattempted to take the correct steps for their scheme to work. She had already read, re-read and summarized most of what she had on Legilimency for her D.A.D.A. project. The path to memories was emotion, any increase of feelings would expose associated thoughts. Closing her eyes, she brought forward the mix of embarrassment and pride she felt standing in front Snape after that first class. The right headspace was needed for it to work in her favor and not expose other sides of her.
“I’m ready. Just… promise you’ll stop when it’s done”
“Of course,” said Terry in a tone that attempted to be convincing. And without any further ado, he pointed the wand once more. “Legilimens!”
The feeling was that of being swept up by a kind and soft whirlwind. A swirl of voices and images and sounds surrounded her, little pieces of mind. Her mind. She was swimming in it, being lifted into a warm pleasant dream, a gentle preconscious state. But she wasn’t sleeping, and this was certainly not one of her dreams. She had to focus, back to Professor Snape’s class, back to the moment he assigned the work and the book.
“A comprehensive dissertation examining the principles and execution of advanced Legilimency and Occlumency. You will focus particularly…”
It was quite the challenge not to become distracted by the extremely sharp hyperreality she was experiencing. Lenore could almost reach and touch every object, read every word on every paper. Darkness was darker, and lights were exceedingly bright. And even in her dream Snape stood in front of her like a totem of imperturbability, reminding her of the task at hand. He was presenting a parchment, one she should take and read.
“Vestigia Magica”
She was lifted again. Lines and lights moved and blurred around her before they reassembled. She was softly placed in the library now, the parchment she just got vanished by Madam Pince. She sat with the book, looked around before opening it. That was it, that’s where she saw the three Gryffindors looking at her. Or was that after? After she opened the book and saw… But there were two books, not many, not a ton like Hannah said, only two. And she opened the book taken from the restricted section and…
She remembered being in a trance of sorts when she first saw all the images in the book, the glyphs that appeared to move, the madly written text. What she didn't remember was reading it –and even though it was no more than a whisper, she could feel it now– out loud. No, not reading. Reciting. Her face was turned to the book and yet her eyes faced forward. But this wasn’t how it happened, this wasn’t real. She hadn’t done that, hadn’t said anything. She didn’t even comprehend the words coming out of her mouth and yet she was reciting them.
The spiral of memories took a turn, she wasn’t experiencing as much as she was seeing. The pages, the sentences that hadn’t made sense then. They still didn’t know, and yet she was vividly experiencing them.
“And there are those whose blood would incline them to other arts, whose essence is deeply entangled with traces of magic…”
That useless book. She had been looking, searching for a hint of meaning, something useful to add to her work. And she had found it, she just didn’t remember. Before she had found the last name, that fallen family. Before the rose. She had found it. Legilimency Traces of magic in the blood. Another last name, a powerful family. A powerful lineage, gifted in the arts of mind deciphering. Bits and pieces flashed through,with a sick-inducing velocity. The man in the hallway. “No.” The welcoming hand. “Stop.” She didn't want them to see.
She knew what followed. Her, walking towards him. Him, surrounding her. His hair brushing against her. The heavy cold air, the fresh scent of perfume mixing with firewhiskey. The wrapping of his arms around her, the kisses on her neck. Cold, and then painful heat. Bodies, moving, rupturing each other. Even through the blurriness, even when the images hadn’t become sharp and bright just yet, she knew them. They would see. And they would know of her shame, of her want. Of her desire.
“Stop this!” Lenore screamed, at the top of her lungs, bolting up from the chair so fast she kicked it behind her.
Terry threw his arms up in shock, afraid she’d attack him. Anger and embarrassment tinted her face a furious shade of red as she looked at him. The shadows of the room closed on her, the oxygen was sucked right out of the room. Breathing was hard, and trying made her chest hurt. Everything was still spinning around her, the room and the memories. She looked around, but at every turn she only saw the three of them standing around her.
“What happened?” Neville questioned.
She hadn’t proved her innocence, hadn’t reached Malfoy's confession, this had all been for nothing.
“I have to… I need to leave,” she said, trying to catch her breath and stumbling around in search of the door. “I need to leave…” At every step, the tortuous sensation assaulted her that she was going to fall to the ground and into nothingness. Fall to the dark where there was nothing but her and her unbearable thoughts. But she kept taking them, step by step, struggling, getting closer. First to the wall, feeling it with her hands, then a column, and then the door. And then, finally, she could breathe. “I need to leave.”
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“Stop that,” Daphne Greengrass hissed under her breath.
Lenore’s knee immediately stopped bouncing under the desk, though she knew that it would start again any moment. Daphne shot her a sideways glare of pure annoyance before returning her attention to the front. The classroom was silent, save for the dry monotone of Professor Snape’s lecture. To Lenore, it was deafening. Every soft scratch of a quill on parchment was a shriek, every accidental glance an accusation. Everything was a potential threat.
“And as for the recent gossip concerning illicit hexes allegedly cast in the corridors…” Snape’s voice enveloped the room like a silken menace. His gaze, dark and pointed, settled directly on Lenore for a beat longer than was comfortable. She swallowed hard. “Unsanctioned, poorly executed magic is as intolerable as the hysterical rumour-mongering. Both are hallmarks of an undisciplined mind. In the unlikely event that any student possessed the skill to perform such an act. In the unlikely event that such an act would have occurred, rest assured the culprit would be immediately identified and expelled by our Headmaster before you had the chance to be aware of it.” No heads turned, and yet she could already feel every eye on her. “Dismissed.”
She moved quicker than the rest of the students, with the desperate urge to flee propelling her towards the heavy dungeon door. She just needed to be alone. She was almost there, foot reching the other side of the threshold, when his voice stopped her cold.
“Briarwood.”
Lenore froze, her back to him. The entire classroom had emptied around her, leaving only the two of them in the echoing quiet. Slowly, she turned, her satchel clutched to her chest like a shield.
“Professor, I didn't do it,” she blurted out, the words stumbling over each other in her haste as she turned around. “I swear, I didn’t do anything to Potter. I don’t know who started that rumour, but it wasn’t me, I would never—”
“Silence,” Snape cut her off, his expression one of profound boredom, utterly unmoved by her frantic denial. He gestured with his head towards a nearby workbench. “Your dramatic ramblings are of no interest to me.” His serious expression usually filled with a quiet anger took a more somber tone “I trust your progress on the psychic intrusion is underway.”
“Yes, Professor,” she managed, confused by the abrupt shift.
“Good.” He took a slow step closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense register that was meant only for her. “Understand this, Miss Briarwood. The initial stages of Occlumency are not about building impenetrable walls. That is a brutish and ultimately ineffective approach for a beginner’s ability. The first, most crucial step… is simple recognition.”
He watched her, gauging her reaction. His words felt unnervingly personal.
“You must learn to identify what is fundamentally yours,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, “and what is… foreign. An invasive thought, an emotion not of your own making. They must be identified, isolated, and expelled before they can take root and fester.” Lenore’s heart hammered against her ribs. Before she could wonder why Snape was giving her so many clues for her assignment, it dawned on her that this was about something else other than a graded project. “Leaving one’s mind unguarded, particularly in the current climate, is not merely foolish, Miss Briarwood. It is an open invitation to invasion. See to it that your defences are not just theoretical. Your progress, and your resilience, will be tested. Do you understand me?”
She could only nod, her throat too tight for words.
“You are dismissed,” Snape said, and in his voice something different slipped out. Something akin to kindness.
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Night fell like the sisyphean boulder she’d been trying to push. Yet as exhausted as she was, she couldn't seem to fall asleep, ruminating, pondering the same words over and over again. "You must learn to identify what is fundamentally yours…”
This whole rumor problem had distracted her, infected her brain with anxieties that shouldn't have concerned her. And she had only let it in because of fear. Fear. Of what? Of being alone? She had to laugh at her own stupidity. She had always been alone. That was not a thing for her to fear.
“…and what is foreign.”
But there was something to fear. Something that was sure to happen, just as it had been and just as it would be. Her nightly torment was soon to occur. She couldn't shake it, couldn’t stop it, not by herself at least.
“An invasive thought, an emotion not of your own making. They must be identified, isolated, and expelled before they can take root and fester.”
Did professor Snape know? Did he know about the dreams? About the dirty and persistent thoughts that festered in her brain? She hoped not, she would probably not be able to look at him ever again. Judging by the way he had offered advice instead of taking her to the hospital wing to get her head immediately examined, it was unlikely. But he did know something. And he had given her a very important clue to –if nothing else– get closer to completing her assignment and be done with Hogwarts forever. She didn’t have many ways to practice her Occlumency in a practical setting and she wouldn't know with whom to, less so considering the events of the day. But there was something she could get started on, for now.
Confusion and self-doubt. Those she could find in herself after Hannah’s warning that morning and the crowd that mistakenly cheered her on. Shame, embarrassment, anger. That was all hers. Gratitude– for just a moment, for thinking that finally for once somebody had her back.
Frustration, anger again, back in Divination class. Disappointment in her own outburst, in her lack of control. Amusement at Draco Malfoy’s confession and… and that. Had that been hers? Had thinking about him been foreign? Or did she want to believe that, to not admit it was hers?
What else was hers? The rage that assaulted her when Terry had looked into her mind. The fear of what he could discover. The shame and disgust at having accepted to be subjected to it, even when a minute before she was looking for ways to alter her consciousness and edit her thoughts. Was the insecurity hers too? The reason she had said yes to such a thing.
Why did she do that?
‘Why did I…?’
Her train of thought collapsed into darkness before she realized she wasn't in the waking world anymore. The air grew cold. Tonight there was no dark hallway, no silver light, no hand inviting. Tonight there was a door, and her own hand pushing as it creaked open. The scent of old parchment filled her nostrils, stained by the perfume of the man standing in the middle of the room; his tall elegant silhouette, partially illuminated by the fireplace. Lucius Malfoy. That terrible, corrupting, grotesquely handsome man who had haunted her dreams for days. He didn’t move, he simply watched her. The familiar wave of cold dread washed over her, a feeling of being prey spotted by a predator. Her muscles tensed up, her body ready for fight-or-fly at the mere sight of him, heart hammering in her chest. But this time she had something to hold on to.
“You must learn to identify what is fundamentally yours…”
She focused, her dream-self gripping the edge of the door. ‘This fear’, she thought, her internal voice surprisingly alert and steady, ‘this feeling of being cornered… this is… mine’. She pushed against the dream, against the door. His footsteps made no sound on the wooden floor as he walked towards her. With each step, the pressure increased. Another wave hit her—the suffocating memory of being overpowered, pinned.
But what else was hers? Right here, right now, something else belonged to her. She had the sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t be there if fear was all there was to find in her. No. Something else, something more, was asking to be recognized. There he was in all his dark allure, in all his stone cold beauty, stalking her like prey. And good grief, she wanted it. She liked it. The way her stomach tensed when we approached, the heat he elicited inside of her –him and only him, because nobody else ever had. That was all hers too. She had to own it.
Lenore didn’t move. Not when his hand landed on her shoulder. Not when he pushed her against him. Not when he delicately grabbed the side of her neck, his thumb caressing her jaw. She moved her head back slightly, her skin tingling under his touch. What if that was it? What if fighting it only made it fester? What if she just… let go?
He whispered into it in the most intimate manner; lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending shivers down her spine and lighting a fire in the depths of her core. “You are… here.”
A shift took place in her, like the intricate moving of machinery; pieces moved aside to let out a soft hiss of steam. It did not matter if her decision was made from desperation or a perverse sense of fascination. All that mattered in that moment is that it was hers. Fuck it. Why not? Who would it hurt? To just sit back in her own mind and let it unfold. She wouldn’t fight it this time, there’d be no resistance.
The light from the fireplace suddenly extinguished, plunging them into an intimate profound darkness.
“Just. Let. Go.”
And so she did. A half nod, a silent surrender to the current that pulled his ethereal space.
His mouth claimed hers, slowly at first, but quickly deepening into a hungry kiss that stole her breath and ignited a fire she had previously fought. Her hands, usually fisted in resistance, found their way to his chest, then around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling in his long, soft hair. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure pleasure, and pressed his body fully against hers. Their clothes dissolved into nothingness, leaving their skin to meet directly, hot and eager. His body was hard, sculpted marble against her yielding softness.
His hands slid down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, then cupping her ass, lifting her, pressing her hips against his. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively in an eager embrace. She felt his thick, insistent hardness pressing against her, hot and undeniable.
"You want this, don't you?" he breathed against her neck, his lips moving against her skin, sending exquisite shivers through her. "You want me inside you."
And this time, she didn't deny it. "Yes," she whispered, a desperate, raw sound torn from her throat. "Please."
He entered her in a slow, deliberate move that filled her completely, stretched her, and sent a shockwave of pure unadulterated pleasure straight through her. Her body convulsed around him, a raw, animalistic moan escaping her lips as she arched her back, burying her face in the curve of his neck. But he didn’t let her. His hand collected her hair at the base, pulling just hard enough so he was looking into his eyes, the oneiric darkness somehow letting her see his features perfectly. His pale blue irises shone in the dark with a gentle hue —it wasn’t his usual stormy steel, but a clear winter sky after a snow. He wanted her to look, and was wordlessly asking her to. To really look at him; to see.
He moved, each thrust a perfect, exquisite agony that pushed her further and further towards the edge. His hands were everywhere – gripping her ass, stroking her thighs, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so he could devour her neck, her jaw, her mouth. She couldn’t say it wasn’t violent, intense, raw. But she embraced it still; his need for dominance met with hers to be subjected to it. Her fingernails raked across his back, not in resistance, but in a primal demand for more, a desperate need to feel his power, his claim. Her body was a symphony of sensation, every nerve ending alive, pulsing with the rhythmic friction, the deep penetration, the relentless push towards climax.
“Fuck,” she gasped, her voice hoarse, desperate. Her body bucked against him, nearing its breaking point.
He responded with a deep, guttural growl, his thrusts becoming frantic, desperate, as he slammed into her, harder, faster. He tugged her hair once more forcing her to look, his piercing stare now a soft half-lidded gaze that reached effortlessly into the deepest parts of her mind as his cock reached the ones in her body. All of it was too much, too real. The by now familiar contraction of muscles came sooner than she expected, her insides tightening around him as she came with a scream that could only be described as feral. She gripped him, legs squeezing, nails digging into his flesh, riding the wave as it crested, exploded, shattering her into a million glorious pieces.
Even at her peak, he didn’t stop. Wet slap of skin on skin, desperate, unhinged sounds of shared pleasure. Time seemed to stand still, and her brain was simply not working any more. She was a drooling, panting, moaning mess. Her body kept convulsing around him, long drawn-out moans escaping her lips, echoing in the shadowy hall. He let out a deep, primal sound, burying his face in her neck as he followed her, emptying himself inside her.
When silence finally reigned again, a heavy, satisfied quiet settled over them like a shroud. He lifted his head, a look of almost cruel satisfaction etched on his perfect features. In that fleeting moment, as his body still pressed against hers, as the remnants of their shared, brutal climax hummed between them, one thought, sharp and undeniable, consumed her: She wanted to stay. She embraced it, the shocking, raw desire to remain lost in this perverse reality forever. Even as she lost the coolness of his skin on hers, as his face blurred and distorted, as she felt the inexorable pull back to her waking self, she clung to the fading sensation. “Don’t go.” If she could decide so at that moment, she'd stay in that dream forever, eternally bound. But true darkness claimed her, taking him and the dream away.
How would Karl Heisenberg and Lucius Malfoy treat a daughter? Separately ofc
Good question!
-I'm thinking a Pansy Parkinson type girl.
-Spoiled but adored (from both Cissy and Lucius)
-Most likely a Slytherin
-They'd be unhappy with Ravenclaw, but could come to terms with it. But Gryffindor or Hufflepuff? Nope. Never in a million years.
-She'd be just as bratty as Draco (if not more)
-Definitely a "Daddy's girl"
-strict house rules tho
-Lucius and Cissy may not show affection in public, but in the books it's often shown that they do love draco unconditionally. So the same would apply to their daughter.
-Named after an ancestor or constellation
-She'd be a little miss perfect (and also a bitch)
-think Minister's daughter type thing
-has so much jewelry it's ridiculous
-definitely was taught ladylike manners by Cissy
-for some reason I'd think she'd specialize in herbology and jinxes
-in public Cissy is the more hands on parent to her, but in private Lucius and Cissy dote on her like draco
-she has Cissy's looks and lucius' attitude
-bellatrix would adore her niece
-one word. Princess
-he may not seem to be the sweetest man, but when he has a daughter his inner dad comes out
-he'd make her toys
-he's the kind of dad to throw their kid up in the air and catch them
-rules? Idk what that means
-if she showed interest in his profession, he'd sit her down and talk for hours about engineering
-would call her "pumpkin" sometimes
-i can see her hopping on his tummy because he's so soft (he pretends to be annoyed but he finds it adorable)
-named whatever the first thing comes to mind
-hopefully not named Soldat Kind
-he doesn't like pink, but if she does, suddenly half the factory is pink
-would adopt a cat for her
-tells her stories from his life (the family friendly versions of them tho)
summary: You hadn't expected to see him at the Malfoy's lavish New Year's party - not after all these years. But one spilled drink would set in motion what you'd fantasized about since he was still your Head of House, a stolen moment in the kitchen blooming into a night you'll never forget. (edited 08/03/25)
~
Lucius Malfoy loved to throw parties.
Severus Snape hated them.
He much preferred the solitude of his home at Spinner’s End, where the company of books, quiet, and a decent bottle of scotch far outweighed the din of clinking glasses and false smiles. Still, he made a point to show face at one or two of Lucius’s gatherings a year, purely out of politeness. He never stayed long, an hour at most, just enough to make the rounds, nurse a drink or two, and vanish without fanfare.
You, on the other hand, were nearly a regular at Malfoy Manor soirées. Old school connections, familiar faces, and the excuse to get dressed up and escape the dull rhythm of daily life kept you coming back. You were especially close with Draco, though "close" was perhaps not the right word. The two of you had a complicated sort of history. Friends, yes. Occasionally more, depending on how drunk you both were. You’d made it clear you weren't looking for anything serious, or so you thought.
You were starting to suspect he hadn’t taken you seriously.
It was New Year’s Eve now, and the manor was brimming with guests dressed to the nines. You stood near the back of the ballroom, trying - and failing - to avoid Draco’s endless chatter. He was monologuing again, gesturing with one hand while the other rested far too familiarly over your shoulder.
You barely heard a word he said. Your eyes drifted across the room, scanning the crowd almost unconsciously for a flash of raven-black hair, dark eyes, a towering presence dressed in black. You hadn’t seen Severus at any of these events in years, but your eyes always searched for him anyway.
Old habits, you supposed.
Back at Hogwarts, he’d been your Head of House. You had the usual Slytherin respect for him - bordering on fear, at times - but by the time fifth year rolled around, that fear had twisted into fascination. You developed a crush. A deep, all-consuming one. Not that you ever acted on it - Merlin, you’d have been tossed from Slytherin and banned from the dungeons forever.
So you admired him from afar. You’d purposely chosen an aisle seat in Potions class, just so you could catch his scent when he stormed past - cloves, parchment, and something darker, like bitter smoke. You still remembered the high you got from seeing "Better than I expected" scribbled at the bottom of your essay on the uses of unicorn horn in blood-replenishing potions. High praise, coming from him. You’d saved the parchment, pressed flat in a book somewhere, long forgotten but never discarded.
You’d sketched him, too, in the margins of your notes, on napkins during meals in the Great Hall, anywhere you could, though you never showed anyone. That kind of adoration had no place in the open air.
Time passed. Life moved on. Your flame for him dimmed over the years, but it never quite extinguished.
Draco suddenly announced he was off to fetch drinks. You nodded tightly, grateful for the brief reprieve. The moment he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a sigh and glanced down at your hands, admiring your nails. You’d gotten them done that morning - elegant almond-shaped tips in a champagne shimmer, glossy and reflective with tiny flecks of gold foil. They were perfect, understated and festive.
You fidgeted while you waited, and just as you began scanning the room again, still hoping, Draco reappeared, carrying a shot in one hand and a neon blue cocktail in the other.
"Here you are, darling," He said brightly, extending the garish drink toward you.
But someone bumped into him from behind.
The blue drink sloshed violently forward - right onto your chest.
You gasped, stumbling back a step as the liquid soaked into the front of your dress. It ran down in sticky, slow drips, disappearing into your bra.
"Bloody hell," You hissed, staring down at yourself in horror. At least you'd worn black.
Draco began apologizing profusely, but you raised a hand, cutting him off with a look that left no room for argument. "Don’t," You snapped, voice low and deadly. "Just don’t. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone, Draco. Now."
You turned and stalked off toward the kitchen, cursing under your breath. "Fucking unbelievable... blue drinks, of all bloody things, who even drinks that shit? Who serves it at a Malfoy party? Is this a fucking joke?" You shoved through the door, muttering obscenities and storming toward the sink.
You yanked a wad of paper towels from the roll and began dabbing furiously at your chest, trying to soak up the mess. Your fingers worked quickly, scrubbing at the skin just above the neckline of your dress. The satin clung uncomfortably, and you shoved a few damp towels down the front to try to blot beneath the fabric. Your jaw clenched. The sting of embarrassment burned behind your eyes.
"For Merlin’s fucking sake, what the shit-"
A quiet throat-clear behind you made you freeze.
You turned your head slowly, and then you saw him - leaning casually near the wine rack, glass of something dark and amber in one hand, stood Severus.
You startled. Not fear, exactly, but a jolt of sudden awareness, and your eyes went wide.
"Do you see this shit?" You blurted, gesturing to your chest without thinking. "Proper twat, he is."
The corner of Severus’s mouth tugged upward, the ghost of a smirk growing by the second. He looked far too amused.
"I see you’ve still got a filthy mouth," He murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink.
You rolled your eyes. "Okay, Professor," You said, sarcastic and quick, ducking your head as you resumed blotting your dress. Your cheeks were warm now, not just from embarrassment but from the sharp jolt of thrill that raced down your spine.
You’d finally found him again, after all these years.
Don’t act like a fool, You thought. You’ve got one shot at this.
He watched you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful, sweeping your form with a subtlety that would’ve gone unnoticed if you weren’t so hyperaware of him. He hadn't seen you in years, but time had done you justice. You were no longer the girl stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking. You’d grown into yourself - all lean lines and soft curves, your black dress hugging the gentle slope of your hips and bum. The hem brushed the floor, a slit trailing up the length of your leg, the neckline low but tasteful. Your hair was longer now, darker, falling in soft waves that brushed your shoulder blades.
You caught him looking and said nothing, only continued blotting the mess from your skin, pretending not to notice the slow rake of his eyes.
"So, who spilled on you?" He asked, voice casual, though there was something beneath it. Amusement, yes, but also interest.
You groaned, rolling your eyes skyward. "Draco."
He paused, raising a brow. "Your date?"
Your hand stilled mid-blot. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.
"Definitely not."
He held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever he saw in your expression must have satisfied him, because he gave a small nod and took another sip of firewhisky.
A beat passed.
"I haven’t really seen you at any of these in a while," You said, feigning nonchalance, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. You tucked a curl behind your ear, heart pounding. "Figured you’d sworn them off entirely."
He eyed you over the rim of his glass, dark brow lifting. "You’ve been looking?"
You hesitated just a fraction, then met his gaze with renewed confidence. The alcohol helped, so did the years. You weren’t a student anymore - you didn’t owe him obedience.
"What if I have?" You replied, voice low.
He stared at you - hard, assessing, unreadable - but something shifted behind his eyes. Just the barest flicker of an acknowledgment. A heat, slow and coiled, beginning to stir beneath the surface.
He shifted slightly, turning more toward you now, and this time his gaze was anything but subtle. He took his time, eyes moving deliberately - the flush of pink still warming your cheeks, the delicate dusting of freckles across your nose, the way your mauve lipstick made your lips look almost too full for polite company.
"Why have you?" He asked at last, voice low and smooth. A challenge.
Oh, two could play at this game.
You leaned back against the sink, one hand bracing on the edge of the marble as your posture relaxed into something almost lazy. Your hair slipped over one shoulder in loose waves, catching the light. You tilted your head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze with a calm confidence - eyes steady, lips curled in the faintest smirk.
"Maybe I’ve got a thing for men who hate parties and would rather drink alone in the kitchen," You said coolly.
There was a pause, a slow blink. And then his smirk deepened, just a hair. Dangerous. Pleased.
"Is that so?"
You shrugged lightly, eyes not leaving his. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for brooding, emotionally unavailable types. Call it a character flaw."
"You should work on that," He said dryly.
"Maybe," You replied, "But not tonight."
The weight in the air shifted again, heavier now, humming with something unspoken. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, then returned to your eyes.
He said nothing at first, only watching you with that unreadable stare - part intrigue, part warning. Then he wordlessly lifted the glass to his lips and downed the last of his drink in one long, slow swallow. The amber liquid caught the light as it disappeared, and when he set the empty glass down, his movements were smooth. Controlled. Measured.
But you could feel the heat simmering underneath.
"Careful, Miss Y/L/N. You’re playing a dangerous game," He murmured, turning the weight of his stare fully on you.
He refilled his glass, the rich scent of firewhisky curling into the air between you like a challenge. But before he could lift the glass to his lips, your hand slid between his and the rim. You took it from him - slow, intentional - your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel the tension coil tighter beneath his skin.
You didn’t break eye contact.
You raised the glass, the crystal cool against your palm, and tilted it back with a practiced ease. The firewhisky was smoother than you expected - smoky, spiced, expensive. You swallowed without flinching, letting it burn a little as it slid down your throat. Then you lowered the glass, a perfect mauve lip print staining the rim.
And just because you knew he was watching, you dragged your tongue over your upper lip in one slow, deliberate motion, catching every trace of the drink.
His jaw flexed, subtle, but telling.
You stepped closer, close enough to smell the clove and smoke on him, your voice dropping into a purr. "And what if danger... excites me?" You asked, tilting your chin just slightly.
His eyes swept over you - your lips, the curve of your throat, the way your dress clung to your hips and thighs, still slightly damp from Draco’s mess. His gaze was slow, intense, calculating. "Then you’re a bloody fool," He said, his voice quiet, almost reverent.
You hummed in amusement, setting the glass down with a soft clink against the counter. "A fool," You murmured, gaze never leaving his, "Who knows what she wants."
And then, with a daring you didn’t quite realize you possessed, you reached forward and walked two fingers slowly up the lapel of his robes - deliberate, teasing, testing. But the moment your touch reached the edge of his collarbone, his hand shot out, catching your wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
You gasped - not from fear, not even from surprise, really, but from the pleasure of it. The control in his fingers, the heat radiating off of him. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was commanding, and your breath hitched at the sheer intimacy of it.
He stepped forward, just enough that your back was pressed against the counter. He leaned down, his face stopping just inches from yours, lips barely a breath away from skin.
"And what do you want?" He asked, voice deep and coaxing, the kind that wrapped around your throat like silk. His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before lifting again, locking with yours.
You tilted your head back slightly, baring your neck, the movement instinctive. Your heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might bruise your ribs. "I think you know the answer to that," You murmured.
His grip on your wrist tightened - just slightly, but it sent a jolt through you like lightning. You exhaled a soft, breathy moan before you could stop it, quiet enough that it could’ve been missed, but his eyes darkened instantly.
"I want to hear you say it."
The way he said it - low, commanding, edged with that dangerous intensity only he possessed - made your knees feel unsteady. He wasn’t going to let you hide behind clever remarks or flirty innuendo. He wanted it laid bare.
You swallowed hard, but you didn’t look away. "I want you, Severus," You whispered.
The second the words left your mouth, something in him shifted. Your wrist was released, only for him to wrap one strong arm around your waist, yanking you flush against his body in one smooth, possessive movement. You barely had time to gasp before his other hand came up to cradle your face, palm firm, thumb grazing just beneath your cheekbone.
His eyes searched your face for a fraction of a second, taking in your parted lips, the breathless anticipation, the sharp glint of hunger barely hidden beneath your bold exterior.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or gentle, it was years of repressed hunger poured into the bruising crush of his mouth on yours, demanding and hot, moving with a precision that stole the air from your lungs. You whimpered against him as your body arched into his, mouth opening instinctively under the press of his own. His tongue swept in, confident and commanding, coaxing yours in a rhythm that left your knees weak. He tasted like firewhisky and clove and something dark and utterly him, and you found yourself chasing the taste of him with a desperate sound you couldn’t contain.
His fingers dug into your waist as he pressed your spine into the counter’s edge. His hips slotted against yours in a way that made your breath catch, and his hand slid from your waist to your lower back, holding you to him like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance.
Your own hands had found their way into his robes, gripping fistfuls of black wool as you melted into the heat of him. One hand traveled up, tangling into the inky strands at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him growl into your mouth.
Merlin, that sound.
You kissed him deeper in response, lips moving with increasing urgency. You were barely thinking, just feeling - the sharp scrape of his stubble against your chin, the scent of him invading your senses, the hard lines of his chest against your softer curves. His mouth was everywhere, lips tracing down the edge of your jaw, across your neck, nipping at your lower lip before claiming it again with a moan low in his throat.
His hand at your back began to slide downward, fingertips grazing the swell of your backside, gripping hard enough to make your pulse stutter. You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound greedily, deepening the kiss again until you were dizzy from lack of air and too much want.
Time disappeared. Gone were the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of music from the ballroom, the distant chatter of Lucius’s guests. Nothing existed but him - the way he kissed you like a man starved, the way his body pinned yours like he’d waited years for this, the way your name might as well have been carved on his tongue for how reverently he devoured you.
And just when your hands began to wander, sliding down his chest, fingertips teasing the open edge of his collar, a sudden laugh from the corridor beyond the kitchen snapped the moment in two.
You both froze.
He pulled back, only barely, your breaths mingling between you as his lips hovered over yours. His chest heaved, yours rising to match, your mouths still parted as though reluctant to end the kiss.
You blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen, your mauve lipstick smeared across both your mouths in delicious evidence.
"Fuck," You whispered, dazed.
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Yes," He said, voice rough and wrecked. "Exactly."
Severus’s breath was warm against your skin when he lifted a hand, thumb tracing delicately along your chin. He wiped the smudge of mauve lipstick there with more care than you expected - slow, precise, like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you just yet. You could barely breathe, still dizzy from his kiss, your heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.
Then you heard voices, and you both froze again.
Draco’s, unmistakably, just beyond the kitchen doorway, a guest with him, a voice you didn't recognize, saying, "Have you checked the kitchen?"
"No," Draco replied quickly. "But I was just about to."
You sagged in disappointment. Of course.
Severus moved fast. His hand left your face as he grabbed a paper towel from the counter, quickly wiping his mouth - then, without hesitation, he turned to you and gently dabbed the soft cloth at your collarbone, just where his lips had transferred your lipstick. It was quick but careful, almost intimate, and then he tossed the towel in the bin just as the door swung open.
You didn’t bother to move away from him.
You simply leaned back against the counter, chest rising and falling as though you hadn’t just been pinned and kissed within an inch of your sanity, and Severus stood beside you, tall, composed, expression set in a mask of polite disdain that couldn’t quite hide the tension still simmering beneath his skin.
Draco stepped inside, eyeing the pair of you. His gaze flicked between you and Severus, then down to the empty glass on the counter. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere," He said, his tone caught somewhere between concerned and suspicious. "You never came back."
"I’m fine," You said coolly. "Just catching up with Professor Snape." You looked up at Severus, and immediately had to bite back a laugh.
There was a faint smear of mauve lipstick right at the base of his neck, just above the collar of his robes. Subtle, but there. And you were absolutely not going to be the one to point it out.
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "Everyone’s heading to the sitting room," He said after a beat. "The countdown’s about to start."
You sighed, pushing off the counter with a glance at the stainless steel refrigerator, catching your reflection. You dragged a finger beneath your lower lip, smoothing out the now half-worn lipstick, then reapplied from the slim tube hidden in your clutch. Once satisfied, you turned back toward the door.
The three of you walked out together, but it wasn’t long before the crowd swallowed up Severus. You glanced just in time to see the black of his robes disappear around a corner, taking a different route through the sea of guests.
The moment he was gone, you cursed softly under your breath.
Draco frowned. "What’s wrong?"
You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. How were you supposed to explain that Draco Malfoy had just unknowingly interrupted what was probably the single hottest makeout session of your life? One you’d been dreaming about since you were sixteen years old? Now, you didn’t even know if you and Severus would get the chance to finish what you’d started.
Draco lingered close beside you, clearly not done talking. "So... What were you two doing in there for so long?"
You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. "I told you already we were catching up. Over a drink. Gods, you’re nosey."
He hesitated, and then with more nerve than he should’ve had, asked, "Did anything else... Happen?"
You gave him a flat look. "Draco," You said, tone clipped. "We are not together."
He frowned. "I know, but-"
"No,"You said firmly.
Draco sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, finally dropping the subject, but your thoughts were miles away.
Your lips still tingled, your heart still raced. Somewhere in the manor Severus Snape, kissed breathless, wearing your lipstick on his neck, was moving through the crowd like nothing had happened.
You weren’t about to let that be the end of it.
When you entered the sitting room your eyes scanned the crowd, spotting Severus standing in the far corner half-shadowed next to the entrance to the hall. Your breath hitched. Even across the crowd, his eyes found yours - dark, unwavering - and your cheeks warmed as a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.
You felt that flutter again. Dangerous, thrilling.
As Lucius raised his glass to give yet another drawn-out New Year’s toast, you began to inch away from Draco. He was too busy hanging on his father's every word to notice. Slipping a pen from your clutch, you scribbled two quick words onto a napkin: follow me.
Then, with your heartbeat loud in your ears, you made your move.
You drifted toward the hall slowly, letting your steps feel casual, deliberate. As you passed Severus, you brushed the folded napkin into his hand, never breaking stride, never looking back. But you felt it, the heat of his stare trailing you like a physical touch.
You stepped into a guest bathroom and closed the door behind you. The space was elegant - a large, glass-doored shower, a double vanity in marble, soft towels perfectly folded on racks. You twisted the dimmer switch, easing the lighting down from sterile to soft and dusky.
Then you waited.
Seconds stretched like hours. Your heart thudded. You checked your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your dress, adjusting the curl of your hair - why was it suddenly so warm in here?
Then you heard it - the door handle turned, the lock clicked shut.
He entered like a storm, dark and intense, his robes rustling with purpose. Without a word, he flicked his wand, muttered a spell that sealed you in silence, and tossed the wand onto the counter. Your heart leapt into your throat.
In two strides, he was behind you, his hands sliding around your waist, the scent of his cologne and something darker, something distinctly Severus, pressing into you like a second skin. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "You’re a menace."
You tilted your head slightly to give him more access as his mouth trailed from your ear to the column of your neck. "And yet, here you are."
And then he was on you.
He turned you to face him and his mouth crashed against yours with none of the restraint he'd shown earlier. His hands found your waist, dragging you against him, your bodies pressed flush. His lips were fire - insistent, hungry, moving against yours with a dominance that sent a shiver down your spine. You gasped into the kiss and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he had every right to claim it. Your fingers clutched at the collar of his robes, pulling him impossibly closer, wanting more, needing more.
His kiss was promise and punishment, reward and ruin. You clung to him as your knees threatened to give, the heat of him overwhelming, dizzying. He kissed you like he’d waited centuries for it, bruising and possessive, all heat and teeth, the kind of kiss that stole breath and sense. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to draw a gasp, while the other gripped your waist, holding you against him so tightly that the gods couldn't tear you apart.
His hands roamed, calloused fingers sliding up your thigh beneath the slit of your dress, nails grazing just enough to make your stomach clench. He pushed the fabric higher, exposing lace and skin and a heat that throbbed for him alone.
You pulled back just slightly, enough to catch your breath. His chest was rising and falling with effort, his pupils dilated, lips parted, and you couldn’t help the mischievous gleam that lit your eyes. "You know," You murmured, your fingers brushing his neck. "You had my lipstick on your neck this whole time. Bold of you, people are bound to talk if they saw it."
His expression didn’t change, but something darker flickered in his gaze. "And what, exactly, would they say?" His voice was low, gravel and silk, frayed with restraint.
"They’d think you were with a woman, of course," You said lightly, a teasing smile dancing on your lips. "They wouldn’t know who, at first, but anyone who saw the shade I’m wearing would probably be able to put two and two together. Jump to conclusions..."
Severus stepped closer again, impossibly close, and your heart fluttered when his hand gripped your thigh a touch tighter. "What sort of conclusions?" He asked, each syllable deliberate and controlled, though his breathing betrayed him, uneven and ragged.
"Oh, all sorts of conclusions," You said, your voice soft, the words gliding from your lips like smoke. "Most obvious being that we kissed, but I doubt their minds would stop there."
You let your fingertips drift through his hair, combing it slowly, reverently, trailing them down along his temple, his jaw, his throat making him shiver under your touch. "A man and woman, alone at the party, drinking, inhibitions lowered... Well, we could’ve been up to anything," You whispered, tracing your finger down to the edge of his collar. "A professor and his former student? How scandalous."
He swallowed hard. You watched the way his jaw flexed, like he was biting back the urge to act - or to lose control entirely. "There would definitely be rumours about us," You continued, leaning into him, your lips just shy of brushing his. His breath was ragged, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you were sure there'd be bruises tomorrow. "Some would say I seduced you with my body... others would say you got me drunk."
His hands on your hips flexed again, firmer now, possessive.
"Mostly," You breathed, tilting your face so that your lips nearly ghosted across his as you spoke. Severus’s restraint was unraveling, thread by thread, his thumb tracing the edge of your thigh as his eyes bore into yours, unreadable and dangerous and hungry. "They’d agree that we fucked, right here in the bathroom... all while poor Draco searched the party for his supposed date."
The word lingered in the air like gunpowder, and the tension snapped taut like a wire between you. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," He growled against your neck, lips dragging down to your collarbone, where he bit just enough to leave a mark.
"Then show me," You whispered, your fingers working at the buttons of his coat, undoing him like a woman starving.
He turned you around, laying you over the counter of the vanity like an offering. Your breath fogged the mirror, shaky and uneven, misting the gilded glass as Severus’s hands roamed your body with a possessiveness that bordered on reverent. The fabric of your black dress was bunched up around your waist now, exposing your thighs to the open air, to his gaze, to his touch.
You could still feel the ghost of his mouth on your neck, where he had kissed you with a hunger that betrayed how long he’d wanted this - how long he had suffered wanting you. His fingers traced your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as if to ground himself. Then up, slowly, sliding along your spine, over your shoulders, and down your arms until your hands met his, and your fingers interlocked.
He leaned down, pressing his chest to your back, and your eyes fluttered closed as you felt the press of his lips at your ear. "You are exquisite like this," He whispered, voice deep and low and dripping with restrained hunger. "Utterly, maddeningly divine."
You whimpered softly, the sound half-buried in the rustle of his coat as it brushed your bare thighs. One of his hands slid away from yours, fingers dipping between your thighs in a way that made you shudder against the counter.
"You’re already shaking," He murmured, voice wicked with satisfaction. "And I haven’t even begun."
You turned your head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his dark eyes in the mirror -blown wide, fixed entirely on you, like he couldn’t look away if he tried.
And then his fingers slipped inside, coaxing a kind of moan from your lips that you barely recognized as your own. His pace was slow, teasing at first, curling and withdrawing with every stroke until your legs trembled and your hands clenched around his.
When he added his thumb to the rhythm, pressing and circling with devastating precision, your knees nearly gave out. A sharp tug, then a rip of fabric, and the delicate lace of your knickers gave way beneath his hand.
You gasped, half in surprise, half in anticipation, the sound only seeming to fuel him.
"I’ll get you another pair," He muttered roughly against your throat.
"I’d rather you didn’t."
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade, his hands releasing you, and you could hear the distinct sound of him undoing his belt - slowly, deliberately - like he wanted you to feel every heartbeat of anticipation.
You let out a shuddering breath, clutching the edge of the vanity for dear life.
"So ready for me," He murmured, voice thick with awe and hunger. "Merlin, look at you."
You dared a glance at your reflection - your body bent forward, hands gripping porcelain. His tall frame behind you, all black robes and restraint barely held in check. His eyes met yours in the mirror - dark, devouring, burning with something too fierce to be fleeting.
You felt his manhood against you then, hard and demanding, pressing into the curve of your backside. His hand slid back down, anchoring your hip, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me you want this."
"I want you," You breathed. "Please."
He exhaled sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath for a century. He finally entered you, desperate and deep, a perfect stretch that made your head fall back, your reflection a blur of smudged lipstick, flushed skin, and lust-glazed eyes. He braced one hand behind your back, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew there’d be bruises later - and you wanted them.
And then he moved. Not with tenderness, with purpose. Thrusting deep, dragging himself through you with brutal rhythm, groaning like every tight pulse around him was your soul agreeing to be his. He fucked you with deliberate force, hips slamming into yours, his hand moving from your back to your throat, choking the breath from your lips just enough to make your eyes roll back.
"Severus-" You whimpered, barely coherent.
His response was a hum of satisfaction, lips pressed to your shoulder as he moved with maddening precision. His other hand never left yours, never let you drift too far from the grounding heat of his grasp, each movement building you toward the edge with devastating control.
"Look at yourself," He rasped, voice thick. "I want you to watch me ruin you."
You obeyed, and the image in the mirror made your breath catch. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your body bent and offered like some unholy gift, and behind you, Severus - shirt unbuttoned, eyes ablaze, looking at you like you were salvation wrapped in sin.
You felt the change in him before it happened - the stutter in his rhythm, the hitch in his breathing, the tightening grip of his hand as his thrusts grew harder, faster, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
And then, ecstasy.
Your knees buckled slightly and he caught you easily, keeping you upright, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, breath hot against your shoulder as he spilled into you, moaning obscenities against your neck as his thrusts slowed to a stop.
You found his eyes in the mirror. Dark, hungry, but softened, too, something reverent flickering behind the heat.
He kissed the back of your shoulder, then the shell of your ear again. "Happy New Year," He whispered.
You smiled, lips still parted as your breath came in soft little gasps. "Best one yet."
Of course she takes him hostage and of course it involves choking. It’s a day ending in Y. But I love how the balance of power between them keeps shifting back and forth back and forth. Also, once again, why does it sound like kinky roleplay, Tantai Jin?
The fact that they are having this convo while he’s being strangled by her scarf?
And he gets freed!
I love this - his instinct is “murder” but then he realizes and withdraws it aside. Demon bone might be his id, but Susu is his superid, and you mix the two you get ego - aka a normal(ish) person :P
His face! Whatever he says, he loves her.
This is demon boy’s equivalent of “pls take all my stuff and my heart” heh.
Stop bluffing, idiot, she’s gonna believe you.
The difference between their worldviews summed up.
And she jumps and the thing that strikes me is how he desperately reaches for her, all instinct, not even conscious thought, and also the parallel/foreshadowing this makes for the spoiler spoiler scene later.
[Description: gifset of Tantai Jin talking to Ye Xiwu as she’s chained in his dungeon, at first looking hurt then increasingly angry. Captions:
Ye Xiwu, take a good look at this idiot called Tantai Jin. You used to beat him, scold him, torment him. And you even wanted to kill him, but even so, he still can’t bear to kill you. He was even full of joy to marry you as his queen. He looks forward to growing old with you. He is so foolish, until you nailed him six nails – he first came to his senses. He really has no dignity!]
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