Author's note: This story is based on the newly released information by JKR about the history of the Malfoy family. It focuses on the first Lucius Malfoy, the "unsuccessful aspirant to the hand of Elizabeth I." There are, of course, historical inaccuracies... but I will try to work as many of them into the plot as possible to explain the incongruities :) Enjoy!
"I see you." This, at least, was not a lie. Peering in to the utterly lifeless glass, he could see Elizabeth's eager, restless reflection. Even through the dim light and warp of the crystal sphere, her red hair gleamed darkly, and the full curve of her white breasts, pinched and pushed temptingly over the neckline of her gown by the cruel Muggle fashions of the day, were visible. But as always, it was her eyes that gave him pause. The hunger there was like none he'd seen, and the inexplicable desire he felt to sate that hunger, though whatever means necessary, was what drew him to her side again and again. Even to the point of performing maudlin and meager ceremonies such as this one. Malfoys possessed foresight in spades, but none that he knew of possessed the Sight; it hardly mattered, all magic was the same to Elizabeth. If he could transfigure a twig into a bit of yarn, there was nothing he couldn't do in her eyes… those wide, starving, demanding eyes.
"Yes?" she pressed impatiently. "And?"
He drifted one hand vaguely over the cold, hard arc of the glass, wishing it were instead the warm, supple curve of her bottom. All in good time, he reminded himself, knowing well that nothing excited this exiled princess quite so much as the prediction she so craved to hear.
"You are receiving-" he caught himself just in time. He couldn't say 'the crown;' he'd already made that exact prophecy. "News. Good news, though some grieve. She is dead."
"'She'?" Elizabeth echoed encouragingly. She wanted to hear him say it, though if he were overheard it would be treason, and both would be sentenced to death.
"Mary. The queen. Your sister." For how else could it happen? This last addendum was a sly barb, but the young woman did not flinch. She breathed a sigh of relief and sat back in her chair, eyes hooded.
"When, Lucius?" she breathed. He waved his hand ambiguously over the still glass, and squinted as though watching a scene she could not witness with her own gaze.
"You know the future is shrouded in mist, Princess. Longer than you care to wait, I'm afraid, but soon enough. Soon enough, you shall be queen."
"So the child is not to be an issue?"
Lucius hesitated. "No. I cannot... I cannot see why. But you have nothing to fear from the queen's pregnancy." I'll kill the brat myself, if that's what it takes to keep her next in the line of succession.
Her eyes slid shut, and the barest hint of a smile brushed over her lips. He could resist no longer, and he took advantage of her brief contentment to steal a quick kiss. She permitted it, but when he reached for her waist, her eyes snapped open and she rose to her feet.
"Not now, Viscount." Her words and tone were cool, but a coy glance over her shoulder promised later. "Hide all of that," she commanded, jerking her chin in the direction of the crystal ball and potion ingredients beside it. He obeyed with an irritated flick of his wand, vanishing the scrying instruments. With a lazy twist of his wrist, the heavy drapes sprang open, flooding the room with sunlight and completely erasing the mysterious, dreamy interior Lucius had intentionally constructed for her benefit.
At first, the magic had frightened her. The fear had only lasted a split second before it was replaced by glowing, eager excitement. He remembered the day well, and he recalled it fondly. It happened seven years previously, when she was hardly more than a child by number of years, but certainly a young woman in attitude and appearance. Her beloved step-mother was heavily pregnant, and life was a fevered dream for the princess in that year. 1548 was also the year that his father, Cornelius Malfoy, had decided that his sixteen year old son's theoretical education was complete. It was time for Lucius to take a place in court. But which? Cornelius was a faultless adviser to the now-Queen Mary, but there was another important card in play. Elizabeth.
"I hear disgraceful things about the girl," Lucius remembered his father drawling. "Like a young bitch in heat; a selfish, sly creature, panting after her step-mothers husband... or he after her. You will go to her, become her confidante however you must. Bed her, if you will, just be sure not to alienate her. Mary is getting old, even if she does wed, a child is hardly guaranteed. I am certain that the girl Elizabeth is too bright to trust me, but she is young, and so are you. You will depart for Hatfield House in the morning."
A bitch in heat indeed. When Lucius had arrived to Hatfield, the newly banished Elizabeth was a snarling blur of silks and fiery hair. With only her nursemaid as companionship, gaining a foothold in her life had been easy... or at least, easier than it would have been in any other point of her life. She was naturally suspicious ("that will happen when your father had your mother killed," she told him bitingly when he'd confronted her about this trait). But she was young, lovely, and newly aware of how that loveliness could affect men. After a day or two, her icy demeanor had apparently melted, and she instead used her new-found sensuality as a much more poignant weapon. Thomas Seymour had been an alarming intrusion in her life at first, but in retrospect, neither could deny that he had been a superb teacher. Lucius, who had been living as the only child of an absent earl in a manor of which he fancied himself 'lord' already, had had his fair share of girls in the village and some of the more comely housemaids (though his mother proved an obstacle to his pursuit of the latter).
He had wanted her immediately. He would have been solicitous and chivalrous even if she had been a hag; but she was the most stunning creature he had ever seen. She had made him wait for months. Long, torturous months, and then when she had finally let him have her, it was anything but an act of tenderness. He thought perhaps she was beginning to trust him at last, but moments after he had finished, when his head was still thrown back in bliss, she had held a dagger to his throat.
"I know who your father is, I know that he can't be found away from my sister's side... he sent you to spy, didn't he? Tell the truth!"
His eyes had flown open in panicked shock. The princess was still nude and straddling him, and immediately, the blade vanished from her hand. She froze. He didn't dare move a muscle. Her eyes had widened in alarm for a heartbeat, and then narrowed as the hunger that he would come to love swept over her face.
"How did you do that? What else can you do? Show me everything."
Now, years later, merely watching him perform magic failed to titillate her as it once had, but it never failed to light a spark of interest in her eyes. Today, however, she added, "You must be more cautious while we are in my sister's court."
The Queen's staunch Catholicism was not an act, not the way Elizabeth's intentionally contrary Protestant practices were. Cornelius Malfoy had had to use different tactics to gain Mary's trust; the reigning monarch had no idea that magic surrounded her, even while she attended Mass and rattled her Rosary beads. Should she ever witness any of the Malfoys performing magic, she would doubtlessly sentence them to death. Escape would be easy, but lying low for generations and waiting to rebuild would not.
"Of course, Princess," he demurred, rising to his feet and offering a low bow. She smiled and extended her hand, so that he might chastely kiss the ring she wore there. Instead, he turned her hand to press his lips to the inside of her wrist, and pulled her into his arms. He had never bothered to hide his desire from her. He knew she reveled in the power she held over him, and her teasing was more than worth the eventual, occasional reward. But in the flurry of activity that had accompanied her recall to court, and her anxiety over Mary's pregnancy, intimacy had been the last thing on Elizabeth's mind for weeks. But Lucius was tired of waiting. He crushed his lips to hers once more, one hand clenching her tightly against him, and the other began to battle with the heavy folds of her skirt. "My love," he murmured, his lips dropping to her throat. "It's been so long..."
"Not now," she repeated, squirming from his grasp. "I have an important engagement to which I cannot possibly be late," she continued loftily, sweeping a loosened tendril of hair back into place. Lucius grew still.
"It is with him?" he growled. She shot him a quelling look, her hand resting on the door handle.
"I will call on you when I wish to see you again, Viscount. Do not come see me before that time. It is not your place to question the decisions of the princess." She swept from the antechamber, her chin lofted, in a rustle of silk.
Seething, Lucius sat back down. She was correct, of course, and as both the Princess of England and queen of his own affections, he could not act in retaliation against her. He could, however, conceive of a way to bring about the downfall of Robert Dudley.