Name: Courtney Kathrys
Title: La Belle Dame Sans Merci
E-mail: Faeriedeath@hotmail.com
Summery: Lily is in love, but not with James Potter.
Notes: La Belle Dame Sans Merci is the name of a poem by John Keats. It is translated to "The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are by JK Rowling. I only own the plot. The title taken from the John Keats poem by the same name.
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The night is cold; it is always cold on Halloween. My husband, James, is lost in his alcohol induced daze; too much Firewhisky with Sirius is always a bad combination. I shiver in disgust, knowing I will have to nurse his hang over in the morning. I draw my cloak tighter around me as I make my way through the darkened streets. The last of the Muggle children are crawling between the houses, begging for sweets to rot their teeth. I shiver again.
It is too dangerous to floo, and we are forbidden to fly on Halloween... the Muggles will be watching... and apparition is too closely guarded to be of any safety. So I walk. The destination is not far.
I find the dilapidated old building easily, the Confundus charm surrounding it giving way to my authority, and the rotten wood turns into marble and the dirt and grime to velvet and silver. They are already gathering. They are waiting on me. I am the only one permissible to be late.
He smiles at me, in his fatherly fashion, holding out a hand to me to join him on his elevated platform. I comply, my smirk hidden behind the silken skull hood I wear; every inch of me is concealed. No one must know my identity; it would be detrimental if The Spy were to know.
The meeting begins and I listen to the orders and the new information as I scan the crowd. I spot Pettigrew. I've known his involvement in this for sometime, though he is oblivious to my own. He might have kept his secret life from my husband, and his two friends – he has even managed to drip poisonous thoughts about the werewolf into the ears of The Order... enough to cause doubt, without suspicion; the most deadly combination. I spot Snape next. He was an obvious one, a devout studier of Dark Arts; he knew more curses and hexes as a first year than the Head Boy at the time. I never doubted his purity in The Cause.
The meeting has ended. The Dark Lord was in a sanguine mood, and few Cruciatus Curses were thrown. My disappointment is the relief of many. The Dark Lord lays a hand on my arm as the others dissipate. I wait until we are alone.
I am lead down a hallway, and into his Private Chambers. Once alone and in secrecy, I allow him to remove my mask. I shake free my crimson hair, and adjust my emerald eyes to the low candlelight. The Dark Lord gestures to a chair, and I sit, patiently, awaiting him to speak first.
"Ah, mon enfant de fleur... you grow more beautiful each time I lay eyes on you."
And he is beautiful himself. He is tall, and his eyes blacker than ebony. His hair is that same midnight shade, and contrasts against his unnaturally pale skin. He is a man who commands attention and respect with a simple cock of his eyebrow, and turn of his head. There is no wonder to why he is so infamous and feared within the wizarding world. He is brilliant, and he is beautiful.
"Thank you my lord."
"What have I told you, ma petite fleur? You must call me Marvolo. Please."
I smile, inwardly and outwardly pleased at such an honor of speaking his name, and loving the sound of the French endearments on his tongue. He never utters my name, in case there are ears listening somewhere.
"Yes, Marvolo; as you wish."
"Good. Now, fleur fille, you are pregnant, non?"
My jaw drops slightly, and my hand instinctively flies to my womb. Pregnant?
"Pregnant, Marvolo? I beg your pardon, but I am not aware of that. I have been using contraceptive charms whenever he lays his hands on me."
Marvolo smiles, his pearl white teeth gleaming in the candle lit room. He rises from his chair, and comes over to mine, his hand rests on top of my own, above my womb, and in a flash I see the fetus, created that morning before Potter left for work. The flash ends and my eyes close. It had been to fast, and too sudden that morning, and I was not fully awake. I had forgotten the event, and the charm, by the time I took my morning shower. That was my mistake.
"I am sorry, enfant de fleur. I know you did not want this."
I shake my head, and he wipes away my tears gently. I lean against him, and he embraces me within his arms. After a moment, he turns my head up to him.
"You and I are similar, mon amour, both born of the blood we despise. Cast out by those unworthy to be of relation to us: your sister, and my sire. I have seen great power in you, mon cher, great power indeed. You understand that I am not after the purity of blood. No... you know my true motivation."
"Power, Marvolo. It is power. And the Purebloods are the one to have that power, since they carry the influence. By convincing them that you want to eradicate all those of Muggle lineage, you draw them to your side. They know no more than their incestuous pure blood allows them to."
"Very keen, ma belle fleur; you are quite perceptive indeed. Yes, blood means nothing to me. It is a gimmick, a game. A pawn I must use in order to succeed. And that is one reason you must be kept a secret. Mon secret."
"I have always been yours."
"Then carry this child. Bare it till term and raise it. Love it. You must be a mother to the child. I feel that the babe will be of great power, and even greater importance. Will you do this, ma fleur, mon lys?"
"I will do whatever you ask of me."
He gazes at me, with his depthless eyes, and outlines my face with his unnaturally long and elegant fingers. Tracing my jaw, my lips; his face is mere inches from my own, his breath hot against my cheek.
"We can pretend that the child is ours, mon amour. Will that be more bearable?"
I nod, his words flowing around me like honey and wine. Before I understand what is happening, his lips are on mine, crushing them in his passionate and fiery kiss. His slender hands are in my hair, and his tongue is exploring my mouth.
His arms are now around me, lifting me, carrying me to the elegant bed. He is over me, his hands making short work of my cloak, and my robes, and I with his. The feeling of his skin beneath my hands is intoxicating, and his own fingers run rampant on the expanse of my body. Every crevice of me is possessed by him. His power overwhelms me.
Within moments he is inside of me, and we move together instinctually. His lips trail my neck as I lean my head back in sheer ecstasy. He is gentle, and passionate, not at all the cruel and merciless leader he is outside these doors. And he alone pushes me over that edge, into a feeling of bliss and passion I have never been able to feel before, that Potter has never caused in me, and never could.
We lay there afterwards, his arms encircling me, his elegant fingers drumming over my womb. His breath is hot in my ear.
"Ah, mon fleur, we were careless. I believe you are pregnant!"
I turn and smile at him, at the twinkling obsidian eyes smiling back at me, beginning our make believe game.
"Well, my husband is too dimwitted. I'll let him believe it to be his. He'll never know that the child is yours, my love."
"No, mon amour, he will never know."
I dress and leave his chambers quietly. The trick-or-treaters have all disappeared into the darkness, and the streets are disserted, hollow and empty in their nakedness. I make my way silently and slowly back to my inebriated husband and his best friend, knowing both are dead to the world in their intoxicated slumber. I shiver from the cold, and from erotic memory, and wrap my cloak closer around me. The night is cold; it is always cold on Halloween. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
mon enfant de fleur - My child of flowers
ma petite fleur - My little flower
fleur fille - Flower girl
non - No
enfant de fleur - Flower Child
mon amour - My love
mon cher - My dear
ma belle fleur - My beautiful flower
Mon secret - My secret
ma fleur, mon lys - My flower, my lily
mon fleur - My flower
Title: La Belle Dame Sans Merci
E-mail: Faeriedeath@hotmail.com
Summery: Lily is in love, but not with James Potter.
Notes: La Belle Dame Sans Merci is the name of a poem by John Keats. It is translated to "The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are by JK Rowling. I only own the plot. The title taken from the John Keats poem by the same name.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The night is cold; it is always cold on Halloween. My husband, James, is lost in his alcohol induced daze; too much Firewhisky with Sirius is always a bad combination. I shiver in disgust, knowing I will have to nurse his hang over in the morning. I draw my cloak tighter around me as I make my way through the darkened streets. The last of the Muggle children are crawling between the houses, begging for sweets to rot their teeth. I shiver again.
It is too dangerous to floo, and we are forbidden to fly on Halloween... the Muggles will be watching... and apparition is too closely guarded to be of any safety. So I walk. The destination is not far.
I find the dilapidated old building easily, the Confundus charm surrounding it giving way to my authority, and the rotten wood turns into marble and the dirt and grime to velvet and silver. They are already gathering. They are waiting on me. I am the only one permissible to be late.
He smiles at me, in his fatherly fashion, holding out a hand to me to join him on his elevated platform. I comply, my smirk hidden behind the silken skull hood I wear; every inch of me is concealed. No one must know my identity; it would be detrimental if The Spy were to know.
The meeting begins and I listen to the orders and the new information as I scan the crowd. I spot Pettigrew. I've known his involvement in this for sometime, though he is oblivious to my own. He might have kept his secret life from my husband, and his two friends – he has even managed to drip poisonous thoughts about the werewolf into the ears of The Order... enough to cause doubt, without suspicion; the most deadly combination. I spot Snape next. He was an obvious one, a devout studier of Dark Arts; he knew more curses and hexes as a first year than the Head Boy at the time. I never doubted his purity in The Cause.
The meeting has ended. The Dark Lord was in a sanguine mood, and few Cruciatus Curses were thrown. My disappointment is the relief of many. The Dark Lord lays a hand on my arm as the others dissipate. I wait until we are alone.
I am lead down a hallway, and into his Private Chambers. Once alone and in secrecy, I allow him to remove my mask. I shake free my crimson hair, and adjust my emerald eyes to the low candlelight. The Dark Lord gestures to a chair, and I sit, patiently, awaiting him to speak first.
"Ah, mon enfant de fleur... you grow more beautiful each time I lay eyes on you."
And he is beautiful himself. He is tall, and his eyes blacker than ebony. His hair is that same midnight shade, and contrasts against his unnaturally pale skin. He is a man who commands attention and respect with a simple cock of his eyebrow, and turn of his head. There is no wonder to why he is so infamous and feared within the wizarding world. He is brilliant, and he is beautiful.
"Thank you my lord."
"What have I told you, ma petite fleur? You must call me Marvolo. Please."
I smile, inwardly and outwardly pleased at such an honor of speaking his name, and loving the sound of the French endearments on his tongue. He never utters my name, in case there are ears listening somewhere.
"Yes, Marvolo; as you wish."
"Good. Now, fleur fille, you are pregnant, non?"
My jaw drops slightly, and my hand instinctively flies to my womb. Pregnant?
"Pregnant, Marvolo? I beg your pardon, but I am not aware of that. I have been using contraceptive charms whenever he lays his hands on me."
Marvolo smiles, his pearl white teeth gleaming in the candle lit room. He rises from his chair, and comes over to mine, his hand rests on top of my own, above my womb, and in a flash I see the fetus, created that morning before Potter left for work. The flash ends and my eyes close. It had been to fast, and too sudden that morning, and I was not fully awake. I had forgotten the event, and the charm, by the time I took my morning shower. That was my mistake.
"I am sorry, enfant de fleur. I know you did not want this."
I shake my head, and he wipes away my tears gently. I lean against him, and he embraces me within his arms. After a moment, he turns my head up to him.
"You and I are similar, mon amour, both born of the blood we despise. Cast out by those unworthy to be of relation to us: your sister, and my sire. I have seen great power in you, mon cher, great power indeed. You understand that I am not after the purity of blood. No... you know my true motivation."
"Power, Marvolo. It is power. And the Purebloods are the one to have that power, since they carry the influence. By convincing them that you want to eradicate all those of Muggle lineage, you draw them to your side. They know no more than their incestuous pure blood allows them to."
"Very keen, ma belle fleur; you are quite perceptive indeed. Yes, blood means nothing to me. It is a gimmick, a game. A pawn I must use in order to succeed. And that is one reason you must be kept a secret. Mon secret."
"I have always been yours."
"Then carry this child. Bare it till term and raise it. Love it. You must be a mother to the child. I feel that the babe will be of great power, and even greater importance. Will you do this, ma fleur, mon lys?"
"I will do whatever you ask of me."
He gazes at me, with his depthless eyes, and outlines my face with his unnaturally long and elegant fingers. Tracing my jaw, my lips; his face is mere inches from my own, his breath hot against my cheek.
"We can pretend that the child is ours, mon amour. Will that be more bearable?"
I nod, his words flowing around me like honey and wine. Before I understand what is happening, his lips are on mine, crushing them in his passionate and fiery kiss. His slender hands are in my hair, and his tongue is exploring my mouth.
His arms are now around me, lifting me, carrying me to the elegant bed. He is over me, his hands making short work of my cloak, and my robes, and I with his. The feeling of his skin beneath my hands is intoxicating, and his own fingers run rampant on the expanse of my body. Every crevice of me is possessed by him. His power overwhelms me.
Within moments he is inside of me, and we move together instinctually. His lips trail my neck as I lean my head back in sheer ecstasy. He is gentle, and passionate, not at all the cruel and merciless leader he is outside these doors. And he alone pushes me over that edge, into a feeling of bliss and passion I have never been able to feel before, that Potter has never caused in me, and never could.
We lay there afterwards, his arms encircling me, his elegant fingers drumming over my womb. His breath is hot in my ear.
"Ah, mon fleur, we were careless. I believe you are pregnant!"
I turn and smile at him, at the twinkling obsidian eyes smiling back at me, beginning our make believe game.
"Well, my husband is too dimwitted. I'll let him believe it to be his. He'll never know that the child is yours, my love."
"No, mon amour, he will never know."
I dress and leave his chambers quietly. The trick-or-treaters have all disappeared into the darkness, and the streets are disserted, hollow and empty in their nakedness. I make my way silently and slowly back to my inebriated husband and his best friend, knowing both are dead to the world in their intoxicated slumber. I shiver from the cold, and from erotic memory, and wrap my cloak closer around me. The night is cold; it is always cold on Halloween. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
mon enfant de fleur - My child of flowers
ma petite fleur - My little flower
fleur fille - Flower girl
non - No
enfant de fleur - Flower Child
mon amour - My love
mon cher - My dear
ma belle fleur - My beautiful flower
Mon secret - My secret
ma fleur, mon lys - My flower, my lily
mon fleur - My flower
