a/n: In which Percy can't get out a full coherent sentence (but manages to use his tongue for more complicated and skillful acts) and Mrs. Malfoy is a classy MILF and BAMF.

I had this idea for a while; I think Narcissa has serious potential in fanfiction and it just goes underappreciated/realized. And I like the idea of this pairing, since Narcissa would have to, almost invariably, be a cougar for it to work.

It was both strange and ironic how much this reminded him of Hogwarts.

Percival Ignatius Weasley shifted from one foot to the other, briefly bringing a hand up to tug at the collar of his dress robes. They had been the plainest he could find whilst still being in favor with the Minister's taste: black, with few trimmings, very underjoyed and staunchly formal (an ensemble, he thought with wry amusement, that Professor Snape might have selected). The only adornment he flaunted were silver cufflinks, lent to him by his father ("No son of mine should attend a Ministry function underdressed in any way", as the cuff-box was handed to him), and a bronze MOM pin, glinting on his right breast. Dressed in such a way, he looked both suave and reserved- at least, as suave as a curly-haired, freckly 18-year-old could possibly look. He stood in a corner he had designated for himself, hands behind his back, chest puffed out, watching the crowd of dancers somewhat disdainfully. It was a position he had taken quite often at Hogwarts dances as both Gryffindor Prefect and Head Boy, and he found himself comfortable in it. But that was not the main cause of his déjà vu.

It was the uncannily familiar behavior displayed by these adult guests he found rather unnerving.

Staring after the crowds of people milling about and dancing, Percy wished briefly that he could start deducting points (or galleons from salaries, whichever was most effective). These were adults at a Ministry function, for Merlin's sake—yet they acted as terribly, if not worse, than the students he'd herded for the last couple of years. As he sifted his gaze through the crowd, he spied several garishly dressed women from the floor above him positively laying themselves over two of Percy's superiors—who were responding by being extremely . . . well, uncouth. And all of them appeared to be highly intoxicated.

Pursing his lips, Percy again scored the crowd. Quickly, his eyes fastened on a far corner, where the Minister of Magic himself was standing. Thankfully, the Minister at least seemed composed, sipping a brandy (possibly the same one he'd been nursing the entire evening), and nodding amiably to something one of his red-faced companions was loudly relaying. Glancing up, he caught Percy's eye and gave a small wink.

Percy tried to smile back, though it felt like more of a grimace. It was at the Minister's insistence that he was even here at all. Whilst the rest of the office had been buzzing with chatter about the ball ever since the flyer went up, Percy had dutifully ignored it—until the Minister had found him working late at the office the other night and informed him that he was only young once and that if he didn't attend the ball and "have something similar to fun" he was going to be docked of his bonus this month.

All this with a joking tone and teasing sort of smile of course. Yet, in order to make good with the Minister, here Percy found himself: a rigid statue amongst a sea of sweat, and liquored up silk.

But, he reasoned, it could be worse. Instead of being a wallflower (which he was all too content to remain), he could mingling. He could be attempting to make conversation with these drunkards, or allowing himself to be openly mocked by them. He could be dancing with some slovenly female, tripping on her toes whilst she pushed her overflowing bosom at him. He could be letting himself get cajoled or persuaded to do something incredibly foolish.

But here he was, in his respective corner, all business and stiffness. No men nor women had made much attempt to talk to him—well, there had been a few women earlier in the evening, but he'd fended them off. These frumpy, disheveled wives with their loosened morals and lackluster love lives were of absolutely no interest to him. They were, some of them, actually quite attractive—but he couldn't lower himself to entertaining their affections, even innocently, and even for an evening. In his limited experience with women, Percy had learned one thing of himself: he valued sophistication. And most of these women didn't have any—much less he knew how to spell the word at this point.

Just as he was surveyed the dregs of the female population at the ball, he sensed, rather than saw, a force moving through the crowd, coming slowly towards him.

When he looked up, he saw that this force approached in the form of a single couple whose platinum hair and exquisite mode of dress could only signify one thing:

The Malfoys.

Percy watched them make their way across the room, inadvertently coming in his direction whilst they paid their respects to other people and couples. Mr. Malfoy, whom Percy had had the displeasure of meeting on a few occasions, was impeccably dressed as always: his robes were such an inky pitch that they made every other in the room look grey, so black they had to be spelled; silver runes were inscribed along the hems, and his cufflinks were made of silver and sapphire. His silver-blonde mane was swept back with a black silk ribbon, and, as per usual, he had his snake cane in hand. He held the air of a man constantly surrounded by his inferiors, and the smile that he lent towards everyone he greeted bespoke of little more than annoyance and ennui.

Typical Malfoy. Here to make nice and schmooze with the other elitists. And he was coming this way . . . no doubt he would have some snide comment to make. Percy, none too thrilled at being on the receiving end of this, began to turn around, intent on finding another corner—

And did an abrupt double-take when his eyes moved from one blonde aristocrat to another.

Mrs. Malfoy.

He had never, until this point, laid eyes on Mrs. Malfoy. He only knew of her what he had been told by his mother and through Ministry gossip: that she was a cold woman, pale and severe and disdainful of almost everything. People talked of her ability to insult with the utmost policy, of her smile that glittered as if with ice.

No one had warned him about her beauty. No one had told him how stunning a witch she was.

As the Malfoys drew closer, Percy found himself gawking. Mrs. Malfoy wore a dress of deep, royal blue—an open-neck dress, baring her pale shoulders, her slender neck glimmering with a single silver-and-diamond necklace. The dress, the blue bodice inlaid with silver, clung to her slender figure, the full skirt ghosting over the floor. Her hair was pulled back from her fair face in a loose bun, in which twinkled little enchanted stars.

Percy studied her, watching her movements, the subtle expressions that lingered on her face. She was as refined and aristocratic looking as her husband, yet at the same time soft, serene. Her face was lily white; light blue eyes sat patiently above high cheekbones; her eyebrows were feathery blonde, as were her eyelashes.

Presently, she smiled at Doldus Morbast, Master of Court Records (and Percy's boss) as he paid a complement to her, a smile present in the mouth but absent from her cool eyes. She inclined her head slightly, the stars in her hair twinkling in the shifting light.

As Percy watched, she opened her dainty mouth, tilted her head back, and chuckled in such a way that was so obviously fake but so gracious that no one would have dared mention its insincerity. As she gave into her small display, her bored blue eyes strayed over Doldus' right shoulder.

When she locked eyes with Percy, he felt something deep inside him freeze, as if his stomach had become ice.

Next he knew, Doldus was pulling Lucius away in the opposite direction, trying to help him smarmy up with some important Ministry officials. . . .

But Lady Malfoy, detaching herself from her husband's arm, touched Mr. Malfoy's shoulder lightly, and murmured something to him that only garnered from him a cool nod.

And then there she was, a stand-alone work of art, all ivory and platinum and ultramarine.

She watched Percy from where she stood, at a space of twelve paces. Her dress and he eyes seemed to shimmer in the candlelight.

And—he could feel his stomach become a first-rate acrobat in seconds as she did this—slowly, casually, she moved through the throng of people towards him. Never once having to touch anyone, never once having to move around them or ask them to step aside. She moved through the din as if it were water.

She stopped just three feet from him. Her frosty eyes surveyed him up and down, taking in his form, the state of his robes, his perfectly combed hair, his hand-polished shoes, the silver cufflinks that looked like pewter in comparison with Mr. Malfoy's, his detestable freckles: appraising, judging, not revealing a thing.

After a pause (oddly, so silent, even in the crowded ballroom), she nodded, as if deciding something.

"Mr. Weasley."

The nod he returned, though he was not sure why. "Madam Malfoy."

Something inside her winter eyes lit up, as if a small flame had been born there. Her sharp mouth twitched.

Percy shuffled nervously, not sure if he should return her blatant stare or simply keep looking at his shoes, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the bodice of her exquisite dress. . . .

She held up a gloved hand.

"A turn about the dance floor, I think."

Percy was sure his jaw hit the marble tile.

"But—y—I – " as he blubbered, he felt his face go hot, his freckles burning. He cast a glance to Lucius, only ten feet away. "Mr. Mal—"

"Is preoccupied; I, however, am in need of entertainment." She pursed her lips impatiently, watching him struggle to comprehend her request. "You do know how to dance, do you not? I should think it an innate skill to all pureblooded young men."

"I—what? I mean, yes!" Wonderful. More of that infamous Weasley blush.

If his flushing put her out, however, she failed to let on as much. She merely held out her hand again to him, gaze both unreadable and feral.

Not trusting himself to say another word, Percy swallowed. Cautiously, he took her gloved hand into his, thankful for the fabric separating skin from skin.

The moment he took her hand, he could feel the eyes of a hundred party goers round on him. as he led her to the floor, people wordlessly moved out of their way, all their attentions now focused on the unlikely couple.

"Is this . . . ? I mean to say . . ." He led them to the floor, turning to face Mrs. Malfoy. "People are—"

Mrs. Malfoy sniffed. "Please." She stepped up to Percy, closing the distance between them. It was only then that he realized that, despite her impressive airs, she was somewhat short next to him, the high of her forehead at level with his lips.

"I dance with everyone," she told him with soft confidence, looking up into his face. "Besides. . . " her gaze slid back down, into the crowd.

Percy looked as well, and saw Mr. Malfoy, champagne flute in one hand, the other resting on the bare shoulder of a young, stunning brunette from the Department of Magical Maladies and Mishaps. Sensing, perhaps, that he was being watched, the man's silver eyes darted over to the couple dangerously.

Mrs. Malfoy smiled softly at her husband in return as one of her gloved hands snuck up to rest aloft on Percy's shoulder. It was a smile full of challenge and dreamy spite, and the hand on Percy's shoulder gave him a small, intimate squeeze.

Before Percy could process the exchange between husband and wife, the latter had pressed herself against him, bringing her mouth close enough to his ear to whisper:—

"Move."

Somehow, his hand not in hers found the small of her back, and his feet took off without him.

It was fortunate, he would admit in retrospect as they moved away from the floor, that his dancing skills were passable enough to allow him to move about without thinking. The entire "turn about the dance floor" had felt surreal to him—like a dream. Pivoting around the room slowly, systematically, like mechanical dancers, time seeming to drip by. Faces both familiar and foreign whirled past him, and the whispers and voices around him was nearly fatal to the sound of the chamber orchestra.

Of this, he paid little attention. All he could see was Mrs. Malfoy, held in his arms, swaying and changing direction at his lightest touch, moving like a swan upon water, her chin held aloft, her eyes never on him, always looking over his shoulder. But Percy hardly cared. He felt like royalty, dancing with her, like a prince. And this, he thought, was what Mr. Malfoy must feel at everyball, and every day.

And, slicing through his faux-fantasy with the precision of a nightmare, was Lucius Malfoy's face, popping out of the crowd.

And Percy remembered that he wasn't Mr. Malfoy, that he was little more than a boy, eighteen and dancing with a woman whose maturity and beauty surpassed any other whom he could possibly hope to woo in his lifetime.

He thought about this, as the waltz ended and Mrs. Malfoy detached herself from their proximity in order to curtsey. His brooding continued as they departed the dance floor, only punctured by another glimpse of Lucius' Malfoy's face, far away against the east wall: cool, superior, eyes glinting with anger and possessiveness.

If Mrs. Malfoy saw her husband as well, she chose not to notice. She led Percy to stand at the north-facing wall, near one of six sets of tall glass doors. Almost at once, a waiter appeared with two champagne flutes for them. She sipped hers expertly whilst Percy turned his clockwise in shaking hands.

"You dance rather poorly, Mr. Weasley. You have excellent form, but are far too stiff."

He mumbled an apology.

"Don't," she said sharply. "And drink. The champagne is, for once, excellent."

Submissively, Percy brought the flute to his lips. Looking past the glass, he spied again the looming face of Mr. Malfoy. He was looking directly at him, and seemed to be moving rapidly towards them through the crowd—

A hand lit gently on Percy's arm, and he nearly flinched.

Mrs. Malfoy stepped closer to him, whispered:

"Do not fear," her voice powdered silk in his ear. "He will do nothing."

Percy tore his eyes away from Lucius, looking down at her.

She gave him a look and what may or may not have been a half-shrug. Tilting her head back slightly, she finished off her champagne and gave the empty glass to the waiter that had popped up at her side. And Percy, not knowing what else to do, followed suit.

"There," and maybe there was some satisfaction in her voice as she watched him drain his own glass. When he looked back at her, there was something different in the glint of her cool eyes. Something feline and tempestuous. She held out her hand again.

"Come. The night is relatively young; we may yet have time to improve your dancing skills."

So it was that three dances and five glasses of champagne later that Percy Weasley found himself stumbling along the cobblestone path in a nearly deserted, high-hedged courtyard a few yards away from the ballroom, the faint September chill racing through him, following the shadowy, phantasmal figure in a blue ballgown as she wandered ahead of him, darting in and out of his vision.

As she slipped around the corner of a hedge, he tripped, nearly falling onto the uneven stone walkway. Ahead of him, he heard her laugh, high and cold:

"You'll have to do better than that, Mr. Weasley."

Steading himself, he trudged on, following those words, that voice that seemed to have a hook in his mouth, pulling him along like a fish.

It was late, he had no idea what hour. Maybe midnight. They were deep into the labyrinthine courtyard now, with only the gibbous moon hanging above for light. He could hear somewhere in the back of his sizzling mind the voice of reasons screaming at him, telling him to stop, to turn around and go back before Mr. Malfoy came looking.

Mr. Malfoy who had grown more and more livid with every lingering touch Mrs. Malfoy bestowed upon Percy, who ripped Percy to pieces with his eyes while his mouth congratulated various Ministry officials on their latest accomplishments, who would no doubt crucio him in an instant if he could see Percy now—

But, when he rounded the next corner, all of these thoughts left Percy's mind immediately.

There she stood, at the edge of a fountain positioned in the middle of a small clearing; he could not see her face, as her back was to him, the light from the moon above spilling across her bare shoulders, which glistened faintly with glitter and perspiration. The stars in her hair tossed lunar light at him teasingly.

His next tentative step forward echoed among the rushes of cobblestone, the sound carrying to her, making her turn slowly, first her head, then her shoulders, then her entire body, pivoting to face him. Her silver-blue eyes flashed dangerously, and she tilted up her chin, looking down at him, commanding him.

Come forward.

Her voice, in his mind. her lips had not moved, but he heard the demand clearly. he must have imagined it. He was certainly tipsy enough. He complied, drawing cautiously up to her.

When he stood less than a foot apart from her, her gaze flickered, traveling him, his gangly youthfulness. She smiled thinly, like a cat who has just caught sight of a maimed mouse.

Still eyeing him with that predatory gaze, she lowered herself gracefully, as if preparing to sit upon a throne, settling down at the edge of the fountain.

For a moment, silence echoed around them. The fountain whispered to itself, and the crickets chirped eerily in the brush. Percy could hear his own heartbeat pounding, possibly the most deafening part of the stillness. He was shaking inside his dressrobes, his palms pooling with cold sweat.

Mrs. Malfoy simply watched him. Leisurely, her small mouth parted in a silent sigh.

And then:—

"Please me, Mr. Weasley."

And if he hadn't been waltzing around the entire evening half-aroused, he was certainly hard now. Painfully so.

And she was asking him to please her. . . .

He hesitated.

What he was about to do with Mrs. Malfoy he had only had a few times' practice at. Awkward, clumsy, mishaps with Penelope Clearwater in empty classrooms. He was hesitant to perform for this woman what he had so unskillfully performed for a girl.

As much as it pained him, as much as he wanted to please her as she was bidding . . . he couldn't. He would not play an expertly crafted instrument with a shoddy tune and poor technique. He would not allow himself into Mrs. Malfoy.

However. . . .

There was one artform that he had perfected. One act that he had found himself innately adept at.

"I am waiting, Mr. Weasley."

Her voice sent an icy thrill through him, electrifying his senses. Dutifully, he began shrugging out of his jacket-robe.

And it occurred to him, as he let his outer garment fall to the ground, as he knelt down, down to his knees, that what he was doing—was about to do—was positively the most ludicrous, dangerous thing he was ever likely to do. Because if working at the Ministry had taught him anything about particular wizarding families, it taught him this:

You didn't fuck with the Malfoys.

Yet here he was, kneeling before one Mrs. Malfoy, with shaking hands pulling up the hem of her skirts and pushing the fabric back, revealing her pearly thighs. Here he was, parting her legs whilst Mrs. Malfoy, though silent, looked at him with curiosity and amusement. He bent his head, his thumbs resting on the inside of her thighs. Her hands, still trapped within her white gloves, rested on his head, pulling lightly at his hair.

Yes: you didn't fuck with the Malfoys.

You especially didn't fuck Lucius Malfoy's wife.

Outside.

In a courtyard.

At a Ministry function.

But, Percy concluded as he felt a moan sift through her body, traveling down her spine directly to his mouth, in all of this, there would be at least one party without plaint.