Lucius would watch her each time as she touched down on the elaborately decorated lawns of Malfoy Manor, and she had long passed the point of feeling cautious or bashful under the intensity of piercing silver eyes, or under the tantalising warmth of the hunger that lay within them. He would lead her wordlessly into his study, the only part of the house not marked with Narcissa's presence and the only part of the Manor where she felt anything more than a mere intruder. He would watch her as she undressed for him, glorious and expensive Chinese silk of deepest midnight blue pulled carelessly across bronze skin, his gaze never wandering from boyish hips and small, pert breasts and the petite figure reminiscent of his wife's. He would pull her close as she straddled him, breathing in the rich scent of orange and clove, strong hands running over strong thighs and revelling in the sensation of velvet skin taut over toned muscle so different from the soft curves of his usual high society toys. Slender and nimble fingers, used to snatching the smallest of triumphs out of the air with a single swift and possessive move, would cling wantonly to silken silver-blonde strands as her own jet black hair caressed the strong, pale hands which pulled her mouth to his own. Words which lingered unspoken on their lips were passed on in hungry, breathless kisses, and if she dared question then the answers were found in the swift effortless strokes of skin on skin.
And afterwards, immaculately dressed in glorious and expensive Chinese silk of deepest midnight blue, she would slip from under his gaze as he followed the words which would appear in her small, neat handwriting. His interest diverted from her to the names and plans and bits of information which seemed trivial to her at this time in the elegant study of Malfoy Manor, so far removed from the desperation of death and decay and destruction. He would watch her again as she took off into the late evening sky. Even in the drenching wet of mid-winter downpours, he would watch until she was swallowed from view by the stars and the sky, and he could see her no more.
He did not see her fly back to Hogwarts; to Dumbledore and Snape and Flitwick and to the false information she would go back and feed him alongside her own favours. He did not see her as she relayed the information he'd imparted onto her. He did not see her as she betrayed him, night after night. He did not see, but he suspected, and he would wonder how long it would be before warm welcoming flesh would need to turn cold beneath his fingers.
Only the stars saw her as, night after night, she lowered herself to the ground, looking back at the Manor and wondering briefly, warm tears lost amongst cold rain, if she really was on the right side.