somewhere i have never travelled
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
The first time they make love, they are not virgins, contrary to their parents' naïve beliefs about the sanctity of sex after marriage. Indeed, many times over, they are not virgins: a persistent rumor about Narcissa Black and Walden Macnair and what they did under the fifth-floor staircase had circulated the school for at least half a year, and Lucius Malfoy, despite his sharp views on blood purity, was said to be liberal and undiscriminating in the realm of carnal pleasures. There is some flirtation, some innocent and some less so, and he finally has her, without shame and propriety in the dungeons and against the wall, their limbs shaking with exertion, their bodies covered in chilled sweat. Afterwards, she lays her head in his naked lap and he plays with her hair.
"No man should be allowed to treat a girl like that," she says, a hint of mock indignation in her words. "Do you really think that she could take much more of it?"
"Oh? I think she could take that and more," he whispers in response as he pulls her upright and she straddles his legs, leaning forward to kiss him (savagely).
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
Once, they are almost caught by a prefect in the empty Charms classroom, and another time, they escape to the grounds, roaming the land until they find somewhere comparatively secluded and then they fall onto the grass, dirt and stunted wildflowers kissing their robes. Their friends seek the comforts of dormitory beds and Silencing Charms, but, amongst the two of them, it is accepted that there is something too dull, too conventional about the sex lives of most Hogwarts students. Somehow, it becomes the trademark of their anomalous, evolving relationship. There is something curious about that too: Narcissa, contemptuous coolness, and Lucius, blatant arrogance -- combined, the pinnacle of pureblood wizarding society, but together, something colorful and reckless (something more).
compels me with the color of its countries,
Their wedding does not surprise anyone, least of all themselves. They will never admit this to each other for it is a sentimental and somewhat underwhelming rationale, but somehow, each senses that this, that they, of all things in the universe, are meant to be. It proceeds as it should. The right guests are invited (purebloods only), and the right presents are exchanged (perfumes, books, and other insignificant trinkets). The right expressions are worn (smiles, unfaltering), and the right words are spoken (you, my wife, and you, my husband).
Narcissa wonders if this is the beginning of the end.
When Lucius leads her to the marital bed, she suddenly realizes that they have never before strewn themselves over sheets and pillows. There has never been a mattress to support their curved backs, but without hesitation, he locks his mouth onto hers and pushes her towards it. Wedding finery carpeting the floor, they tumble into one, and although she is pressed tightly against his heart and he to hers, they think that they could hold each other yet harder and they would still not be close enough -- so they must keep trying, and perhaps try a lifetime.
rendering death and forever with each breathing
Passion fades, and the lust of youth one day spends itself until there is nothing left but two players at a chessboard, black merged into white -- two bodies, together, growing old. The electricity is not dead, as the flame that powers it is everlasting. Nevertheless, with age comes degeneration. It is inevitable, even for purebloods.
But as the morning dodges through the curtains' crevices and tickles her eyes and all around them weighs the dispassionate elapsing of the years, Narcissa thinks that, when all is said and done, this is how she likes it most: his gaze (on her), his arms (her waist), and something softly unspoken between them.