Blue, not Black.
Warning contains awfulness on an extreme and vicious scale which people may find upsetting. Do not read if underage.
Hogwarts was blanketed in a thick layer of snow. Light fluffy flurries drifted slowly earthwards. From high up in the Gryffindor Tower, Mary MacDonald pulls the blanket further around her shoulders, shivering from the non-existent cold.
In the courtyard below streaks of red and gold could be seen. She could pinpoint out her dorm mates; Lily, Doe and Marlene who were currently throwing rounded snowballs at the four boys opposite. They had dubbed themselves The Marauders; James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Pete Pettigrew. Mary was the only one missing. How she would have loved to go out and join them but something always stopped her.
Ever since the Incident with Mulciber, at the end of last year, about a year ago now, she had drawn inwards. She no longer felt brave and courageous like a Lion should. Her blood status should never matter. Here, she should have been more accepted than anywhere else. Yet the Slytherins were doing the opposite of that. As a Muggleborn she'd become a target; there had been quite a few lately, even more so now. It had left her shaken.
It wasn't as if she had provoked him. Being a Gryffindor had been enough. A Gryffindor and a MudBlood – the two worst things in his eyes. A lot of students when they had found out the simpler version of what had happened, thankfully had stood up against him. The Snakes had come to a consensus that it was a joke, that she should have taken it as one. No harm had come to her apparently. There was nothing funny about it.
Out of all the Unforgiveable Curses, she hated the Imperius Curse the most. The magic, admittedly, had been flawless. The least harmful of the three had left her in a zen-like state. She'd been running late for dinner, had spent a touch too long in the library finishing her potions essay, when she had stumbled into him.
Being alone and bumping into him and Avery was a worst-case scenario. He'd cast Imperio before she could apologise or retaliate. The words slipping from his lips fluently. The yellowy-green light had hit her first. Her head had become spacey, her lack or awareness and free will vanishing into thin air. The three of them had slipped into a nearby classroom. Avery had locked the door and cast a shield charm.
Mulciber had approached her like a predator stalking its prey. She was frozen to the spot. Slow, deliberate, even steps in her direction.
Avery stood at the door, his stance rather aristocratic. His chin even, level. His gaze on her rather than his best friend circling her. His shoulders relaxed, hands behind his back, his wand clutched loosely between his fingers. Feet shoulder width apart. A guard of sorts. It was a shame that he was a guard to the dark side. She was trapped under his watch, like a bird in a cage akin to his surname.
Her heart raced in her chest as Mulciber drew closer. A smirk playing on his thin lips; his dark eyes level with her own icy blue. He slowly runs a long finger across her cheekbone and down her jaw. His thumb across her now dry lips. Her breath catching in her chest, eyes widening.
He traces down her neck to her shoulders, fingers pushing her black robe from them. It pools at her feet, behind her on the floor in a crumpled heap. Still his eyes are on her but she can't react. She can't push him off. She can't tell him to stop. She can't run away. His own robe is removed and draped over a chair, folded elegantly with the throw of an arm and the flick of a wrist.
Her tie is next; the scarlet and gold unknotted with deft fingers at the base of her throat. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin where her necklace lay. A gift from her mother for her sixteenth just not so long ago. A simple silver cross. He catches the delicate metal and pulls, she feels the chain burn then snap at the back of her neck. Furling it in his fingers he kisses the cross before slipping it to Avery who pockets it.
His fingers smooth invisible creases from her jumper sleeves. His hands grasp hers and pull her closer. He latches onto the hem of the grey wool, pulling and tugging it upwards. Her body complies, arms reaching skywards on their own accord. The V-neck slipping over her head, her mousy brown hair draping back into its usual straight manner. He throws it behind her, joining the robe.
His eyes scan over her, meeting her gaze before following down her neck. They linger at her chest a little too long, his tongue darts across his lips as they form into another smirk. Her stomach is next then lower to her skirt, again he wets his lips before taking in her legs which were clad in woolly tights. His body shifts slightly; hips wiggling a touch from side to side. Left to right as if he were trying to make himself comfortable.
Crouching he lifts her left foot first, gripping her ankle, removing her simple flat shoe from her foot. He traces a line up her insole, heel to toes. If she could, she would squirm for it would tickle. He places her foot back on the ground. Her right foot is next, following the same action. He places both shoes under the chair that his robe is on. Two steps and he's back to her. Nimble fingers skirt up her tights, her ankle and knee. He stops around mid-thigh, the hem of the grey pleats. Once again, she swallows hard, her chest tightening. His hands grip her too chubby thighs, brushing the outsides to reach the elastic before tugging them back down her legs. To her, they were short and on the wrong side of the scale. She was never going to be leggy.
Once again, his dark blue eyes meet hers. The slow removal of clothing was torture. He mocks her this time, commenting about his manners. It was rude to remove a ladies clothing without removing one of his own. He peels off the grey V-neck, the cashmere soft against his skin. It folds atop the robe.
He takes her left hand, making her spin slowly. Hungry eyes absorb the soft female. The pleats flare the skirt, glimpses of her underwear peek through as he rotates her quicker. He stops suddenly, her head would spin if it could. He winds his hands through her hair, his head dips as he breathes in the scent of her shampoo. Raspberries and silkiness. They rest around the back of her neck, bodies flush. Gently he presses his lips to hers, cautious at first, then firmer. His tongue swipes her lower lip before kissing her deeper. One hand fists her hair as the other is on her waist pulling her against him, his hips grinding against her own with a fleeting satisfaction.
He ghosts her collar, thumbs brushing the skin over her collarbones. He reaches the first button, delicately undoing it before tugging both sides of the garment. Clear plastic buttons ricochet around the room, the crisp fabric tears as he pulls it from her arms. Dark gazes linger upon the cream lace bra that encases her too-full bust. Her favourite of all things, she knew that it was part of a set.
Mulciber swallows hard at the pale flesh of the Lioness. Large creamy softness is restrained by very delicate fine fabric. Her hourglass figure would look heavenly swollen with a child. Her narrow waist and flat stomach leading to wide hips which would do well in childbirth. It was a shame her blood was blue, not black.
Reaching out he strokes over the Italian garment, his thumb causes her nipple to pebble, becoming hard under his touch. It wasn't the only hard thing in the room as his other hand rearranges himself through his trousers.
At the door, Avery maintains his gaze far above what was going on in the room. His eyes focused on a point on the opposite wall. He was best leaving Elio to it. Close your mind and you cannot be accounted for the things you have seen and done.
Mary's hands are by her side. Her mind is mildly aware of what is going on. Her body responds to his touch. Traitorous thing. She can feel everything yet nothing at all. Its as if she's on the outside looking in.
Mulciber's head lowers to her other breast, tongue flicking and teeth tugging as the other is groped by long fingers. Her body should be as repulsed as what her mind is, instead she feels the need to squeeze her thighs together, if she could. Lifting his head, he flashes another smirk in her direction. The zip being released exposes the base of her back, the fabric being slid over her hips as he swaps breasts. Her nipples graze the lace, creating small pyramids against the fabric. A moan gets stuck in her throat. Its minorly frustrating. He becomes a little rougher as her skirt pools at her bare feet. His mouth latches on hers as both thumbs tug at her nipples the fabric now getting in his way. His fingers may bruise the milky tender flesh in the morning.
He takes a solid step away. She's stood still, eyes icy, lips open, panting silently. The expensive Italian lace hugs her curvy frame and ivory skin. Darker pink colour could be seen through the triangles barely covering her chest. Her hair was mussed but still soft as silk. To Mulciber, she had never looked more beautiful. It's a shame she would never return his compliments and affections.
His wand flicks, summoning a muggle camera which would print the photos that he took instantly. He snaps her, the flash making her blink. The coloured image appears, he admires it for a moment, showing her. He calls her beautiful. He places the camera and photograph on a desk, going back to his muse.
His hands snake around her hips, prints moulding into the soft flesh. He traces the elastic of the matching lace, fingers grazing the front of her pelvis. She's alarmed at this, nerves and frustration building in her chest once again. His fingers curve and brush her most sensitive regions, her hips instinctively flex against his touch. He smirks as he feels dampness against his fingers, removing them and showing them to her. He comments to her about being such a wanton MudBlood. If she could roll her eyes, she would have done.
He takes a step backwards, pressing her shoulders so that she would kneel onto all fours. Quickly he unzips his trousers, sliding them down strong legs. His quidditch playing had done him good. His thighs capable of keeping him upon a broom so he could let go with both hands. She pleads with him not continue, the best she could with her eyes. He noted it was something the muggles would deem as being cute, like a puppy. He hated dogs, especially after being bit by one as a kid. He frees his straining erection from the confinements of his boxers. He eyes widen at the sight. Either the silly MudBlood had never seen a dick, or he was just that impressive. He decided whichever way it was it was something of a win-win situation.
He tests the tip against her mouth, of course she didn't open like some girls would. But this was out of her control. Pushing further her pouty lips surround his length, the softness, he revels in. If he believed in heaven, her mouth around his dick would be close to being there. Threading his hands through her silky hair he moves, slowly at first before picking up pace. Tears fall down her face as he lets his load go. He grasps her chin, tipping it upwards then pressing a thumb to her throat so that she would swallow. He slides his boxers and trousers back on, zipping his fly up securely. Avery summons the camera to Elio so he could snap another photo. Mary on her hands and knees, curves held in place by the gorgeous lace. Her pouty lips dripping with cum and hair a little messy. If Mulciber could have her like that at the end of his bed every morning, he would do.
Pulling her up by her hair so she would stand he reaches around her and undoes the clasp in the centre of her back. Her creamy breasts spill free. He takes a moment to admire them. They were full, far more than a handful, sitting pert against her chest. Her nipples were taught against the cool air and a lovely deep rose in colour. He takes another photo, first of her as a full portrait then as a close up of her marvellous chest. His thumb wipes the tears from her beautiful cheeks.
His fingers find their way to her breasts, cupping them higher and releasing them to fall. He marvelled as they bounced; once, twice and a third time before settling. The motion vibrated through her back, normally it would cause her some sort of discomfort. His thumb and forefingers tweak the rosy buds back to peaks once again. This time he twists them, rolling them a little rougher than necessary knowing that she wouldn't feel it. Oh, how he'd love to do this without the curse, to hear her scream in pain and possibly pleasure.
He kneels in front of her, rubbing small circles to the insides of her thighs and prising them apart. The lace, he could clearly see, was damp, a little darker in colour. The MudBlood was still turned on. Such a slut. He presses his nose against the front panel of lace, slowly inhaling. His hands clutch her bottom, the flesh smooth and kneadable, probably, he thought, it would jiggle deliciously when he would take her from behind. He curls his fingers around the fabric of her hips, dragging it groundwards down her legs. He makes her step out of them, twirling the delicate fabric around his finger before flicking them in Avery's direction. From his view crouched in front of her, his eyeline was consumed by dark whorls of hair, sculpted into a neat triangle.
Deft fingers follow the upside-down shape, from hip bone to hip bone. His thumbs settle either side of the soft flesh of the indents of her hips. Again, he pushes her legs a little further apart. Getting a proper look at the most intimate parts of the female, her cunt glistens in the light. He commits it to memory, fumbling for the camera and taking a direct shot. He'd have a tug at that for weeks, if not, months to come. His fingers glide across the wetness before probing a single finger into the warmth. His thumb brushes that glorious bud that makes her twitch as he stands. Slowly he moves his finger, first one side of the damp lips then the other before adding another. Her eyes had glazed over, chest moving in time with his fingers. Six times he moved his fingers in her while teasing the bundle of nerves before she came. Removing his fingers, he makes her suck them herself, the sight of her pouty lips around his fingers sending jolts to his groin.
With the wave of his wand he rids himself of his clothes, watching as her eyes taking in his nakedness with minor appreciation. Turning her around, he uses his feet to spread her legs, bending her over a table before thrusting into her hard. The brunette wasn't a virgin but Merlin she was tight. One hand grasps her waist to counteract his hard thrusts. The other is knotted into her hair, tilting her head to one side he bites below her ear before soothing it once again. With each thrust he places another; her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder. Once, twice, thrice and he came as if he was a preteen over Morgana's Witches Magazine. The witch currently with her wobbly arse in the air and cum dripping down her legs beating the posing skinny model slags.
He turns her, once again drinking in the image of her. Pushing her to the floor onto her back, he bends her knees, bringing them closer to her rounded arse and spreading them a little wider. Her cunt overflows with their fluids, sliding down to create a small sticky puddle upon the floor. He moves his arms so they rest under her head. Another polaroid is taken. He kneels at her legs, lowering his head to nip at her thighs, deliberately making a mark. His father always told him to never give but always receive. But in seeing his MudBlood bound, he had to try that nectar. Bracing he knees apart he lowers his head to her core. Swiping at the substance there's a balance of sweet and salty. Probing between her lips the sweetness continues, she tenses under his mouth. Her thighs attempt to close, he flexes to keep them open as he openly makes out with her cunt. A few swipes and sucks later her body arches a little away from the floor. His ministrations go to the bundle which he knew would release her, just a few rough swipes and she arches from the floor properly, her thighs clamping around his head in an uncontrolled spasm.
The sight was enough to make him hard once again. He couldn't be this quick with PureBloods, the twisted magic that of a siren from blue blood. It was wrong.
He winds himself up to her lips, placing a gentle kiss to her lips and smoothing away the sweat on her brow. Propping himself either side of her head he sharply enters her.
Avery glances at his best mate; he's gone way too far with this love for the MuggleBorn. His pale arse in the air, rocking back and forth. The muscles in his back, flexing. He'd need a healer to unsee this. Eventually his mate finishes inside the mousy brunette once again. His time was running out. Dinner would soon be over.
As if sensing it, Mulciber takes one last look over the girl he would never have, committing her soft form to memory. With a flick of his wand he cleans himself, the perfectly folded clothes layering themselves back upon his body. Another flick and her crumpled and torn uniform heaps beside her naked body.
Opening the door with the shield still in place, they both undo the Imperio, walking away. She'd be able to undo the shield herself.
Mary's senses come back to her as the backs of two Slytherins slide away. She scrambles for her clothes, too tired and emotional to place anything properly. She tries to straighten her debuttoned shirt under her jumper, forgoing her tights under her skirt. Her favourite cream undies were now tainted, hidden deep within Mulciber's robe pocket.
She hurries through the castle up to the tower, scurrying past her friends, she jumps into a scalding hot shower, scrubbing her skin until it was raw. She dresses into her favourite fleecy pyjamas, pulling a dressing gown over the top with her fluffy slippers. Sitting upon her bed she pulls her knees up to her chest, drawing and silencing the curtains around her. She suddenly felt so small in the world.
They bragged about it at breakfast the following morning. Mary Mac had been Imperiused, made a fool of. No one but the Snakes had found it funny. If only they knew the truth. She had, in muggle terms, had been raped. He'd whisper to her in alcoves, reminding her just how much her body had responded to his touch. How he still had the photos. He'd copied them and sent her to them via owl. He was in her head; nothing she could do would block him out.
It took four months for her to realise that her period was late. Four months of brushing everyone off and avoiding people touching her. She avoided mealtimes, eating a single biscuit every time that she felt dizzy. Her once luscious curves, narrowing. The thing he loved about her, wilting like a flower, dehydrating. She'd skip potions where she knew they shared a class, instead going after hours just enough to maintain a grade. Eventually McGonagall had intervened, involving Madam Pomfrey. It wasn't just the lack of food that had caused biology to go skewwhiff.
Back in the tower Mary focuses on the present. The snow. Her friends. How they were helping her heal, even if they didn't know the full story. They still stood by her. They knew that she could become spacey; lost in a far-off place and time. Maybe one day she could tell them the truth to what had happened. For now, they believed the lie; he simply had put her under the Imperius for a few moments and made her look stupid. A lesson to not mess with the Slytherins, accident or otherwise.
She wasn't the Mary Mac she once knew. The one everyone knew. She was tainted, both in her blood and mind. Her spirit and everything that her family stood for; everything pure and holy, was no longer. Their daughter, now disowned, had danced with the devil. She'd bore his child. A lovely glamour spell had masked that until she had been able to create a lie. A combination of supposed scarlet and glandular fever back to back had given her enough time. The child, a daughter, was now in a muggle orphanage and completely unaware of her magical parents.
Mary's own name was Holy; a good girl image. Her name was Hebrew for Bitter, nothing pure about it and maybe she still was bitter about it all. MacDonald linked her to ancient Scottish clans; the son of a proud chief. The chief wasn't proud.
Elio Mulciber. Elio; Italian and Spanish for the Sun God Helios. Mulciber; also, Italian. An alternative name for the Roman God Vulcan, of fire, volcanoes and smelting particularly of destructive flames. Vulcanalia celebrated on the twenty third of August but also on the same date in May, by sacrificing fish on a bonfire to Maia with candles to represent the sun.
Mary had named her little girl Maia. The Roman Goddess of growth and being greater and goodness, an Earth mother and the Goddess of Spring. A Vulcan priest would sacrifice a pregnant pig on the first day of her month. Maia and Vulcan went hand in hand. Her name linking her to her father, tainting the HalfBlood with PureBlood belief's, status. He would never know the truth.
Their daughter would go unknown but would always be an heir to the House of Mulciber. A taint in their descendant line.
Mary's Blue, holy, blood, had contaminated the Mulciber's Black blood. Their daughter would be stronger than them both.