Siren Song
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn,
the song that is irresistible;
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember...
- Margaret Atwood
He spots her the moment he sets foot in the restaurant.
With that stunning hair loose over her shoulders, gently capturing the twinkling light of the overhead candles, she is hard to miss. She is dinning alone and, if the rumors are to be believed, is nursing a broken heart following a much publicized divorce.
He observes her from his table for some moments. He hasn't seen her since the end of the war, when she'd been merely a girl, all freckles and bright red hair. From what he can see of her face and bearing at this distance, she has matured well. At the very least she holds herself with a quiet sort of dignity.
Lucius finds himself wishing for her to look at him; he wants to see her eyes. He wants it like someone driving along some beach might want to feel their bare toes sink into warm sand. It is a passing whimsy and when she remains unaware of him, he turns his attention to the poor selection that is this restaurant's wine menu. He hasn't been here in years, and clearly the place has declined since his last visit. But that holds true for most of his former haunts.
His wish is unexpectedly granted into the second course – he discovers that against his express instructions to the waiter his meat has been overcooked, and a pair of fine brown eyes are fixed on him from across the restaurant.
They stare at each other for some moments, surprise and then anger almost comically painted across her face. The moment seems to stretch into time before she stands, knocking back her chair with the suddenness of the motion.
Lucius calmly watches her approach, admiring her posture and the way her blazing eyes seem to be almost piercing his.
He is surprised by the flicker of excitement that quietly makes its way down his spine. He holds her furious gaze evenly and wonders if under the fine material of her dress her heart is pounding wildly, secretly. He casually turns to arrange his cutlery on the plate of veal he's barely touched.
And then –
"Lucius Malfoy." It is a challenge more than a statement. Her voice quietly distills poison, but is still pleasingly musical and not nearly as childish as he expected.
Lucius looks up into her face, almost lazily considering her from behind unfathomable gray eyes.
Gone is the roundness of early youth. In its place, sharply defined shapes have asserted themselves into a pleasing countenance dominated by large, bright eyes. Lucius doesn't fail to notice the shimmering red hair fluttering wildly about her, like a living thing, the curves that are badly concealed by the elegant emerald green dress, and the way the high, proud bosom rapidly rises and falls.
He suspects she isn't wearing a brassiere.
"And you are...?" he says at last, a note of impatience evident in his deep, sensuous voice.
"What?" Her eyes aren't really brown; at this distance he can appreciate that they are of a rich, dark gold. Presently they are wide with disbelief.
Perhaps she feels he ought to recognize her due to her former marriage, or her former status as an international Quidditch star. Or because he tried to kill her when she was merely a child.
In any event, it is clear that she is taken aback. She opens and closes her bowed lips before answering.
"I'm Ginny Pott...Weasley."
"Ginny Potweasley?" he repeats incredulously, secretly delighting in the delicate flush that spreads from her sharply defined cheeks to the very tips of her ears. "What a peculiar family name. Any relation to the Ottery St. Catchpole Weasleys, perhaps?"
Her glossy cherry-kissed lips, at least, are still quite plump, and she presses them together tightly now, blazing eyes still locked with his. Lucius feels something stir beneath his dinner napkin.
"You know perfectly well that I'm Arthur Weasley's daughter," she hisses at last, folding her arms under her breasts.
An amused smile plays over Lucius Malfoy's full lips.
He does, in fact, know perfectly well whose daughter she is. There is a lot about her that he knows; he has been aware of her existence in the world. To this day he cannot explain to himself why, but he is able to recall with precise detail every single instance in which he's seen her, every last thing he's ever heard or read about her, and the way the light plays on the particular auburn shade of her hair.
"Ginevra," he breathes softly, as if savoring the name he's never spoken before.
She lifts her chin in an attempt to hide her surprise, and his smile widens to display a row of even, white teeth.
What he is experiencing is a heady sort of enjoyment. He enjoys the onslaught of chaotic energy that seems to be bouncing off her, lively thing that she is. He enjoys knowing himself the sole focus of it. He enjoys the unsettling effect he is having on her. He realizes then he wants to talk to her. He wants for her to sit beside him, he wants to run the tips of his fingers over the inside of her thin wrist, where the quick flutter of her pulse will be.
She stares at him in shocked silence. The way her eyes are almost unwillingly taking him in makes something in him hum with pleasure. Her honey-colored eyes run over his mostly unlined face, over the still lustrous silvery-blond hair casually resting over his shoulder, the beautifully cut dark clothing he wears. Lucius knows himself to be quite stunning, still, and the resentment in her eyes tells him she concurs.
He watches her watch him, pleased by the hint of color in her cheeks. She is responding to him although she doesn't yet realize it.
Lucius's thoughts are already several moves ahead. He wonders what her face will look like as she climaxes, if she will bite her plump lower lip or if her mouth will be parted in silent delight. He is anticipating what it will feel like to sheath himself deeply in her, to wrap her thighs around his waist.
Hot and tight.
"Please," he says, gesturing to the seat opposite him with unconscious grace, "sit. The wine here is bad enough that it must be shared."
Her fine eyebrows arch slightly, either at his words or at the implied command in his voice, or both.
"You're crazy..." she replies, shaking her magnificent head. And still she continues to stand there, meeting his gaze.
How transparent she is.
There, in her large, fawn-like eyes he can see anger and surprise clearly reflected, and beneath that, something else. Something like a deep, liquid sadness which is entirely unrelated to him or to this conversation.
She is broken, but still very much alive. There is a hunger there, behind her eyes.
How beautifully she wears her emotions, like a banner, like a badge of honor.
She tears her eyes away from his then and blushes deeply, perhaps aware that she has given away at least some of her secrets.
It is equally obvious to Lucius that this exchange is not what she originally envisioned. He'd known the moment their eyes met what it was she wanted to say. She most likely intends to call him a coward for escaping during the war and returning only now, years later, when conditions are favorable for cutting a deal with the current Ministry.
Cowardice – the most despicable of traits in the eyes of a Gryffindor; perhaps she thinks he ought not eat at restaurants with everyone else. She probably has an entire speech prepared, he muses. A barrage of angry, demeaning words, words that will all be true.
As he contemplates her large, honey-colored eyes, suddenly it seems imperative to Lucius that she not say these things. He can stand it, he is sure. He's been spit on in the street. He can certainly handle contempt from a grieving girl at a bad restaurant. But he discovers he doesn't want to.
She straightens her back now, arms rigid at her sides. It has taken her some moments to compose herself, not an easy feat under the unwavering gaze of his metallic gray eyes.
She has been somewhat diverted by his unconventional response to her challenge, but now seems poised to recapture the thunder that propelled her from her table to his.
"I just want to say," she begins, amber eyes narrowed and stabbing at his, "that I hope you're-"
"-Ginevra," Lucius interrupts tersely, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, "I fear I must insist. Please, sit."
It is a gamble; the voice he used on his son when he wanted to assert himself in his role of father. The voice he uses on his horses, his hounds and his hookers, to show who is master.
He sees her shapely eyebrows gather together, her narrow shoulders lowering almost imperceptibly. Their eyes latch onto each other again.
Lucius waits, conscious of his heart's rapid beating and of the ravenous desire that lies coiled in his belly, now fully awake. How she ran to him from across the restaurant the moment their eyes met! As if answering a siren song, as if wanting to smash herself to pieces against the jagged rocks of his cliffs.
Inside, he is shivering.
They observe each other in tense silence for a moment, each one measuring the other, and what passes behind her eyes leads Lucius to expect one of two outcomes. She will take the glass of wine set before him and fling it in his face. Or, she will sit.
Will she sit? :)
It feels good to write for this pairing again. Reviews are greatly appreciated!