Chapter 36
Beautiful Disaster
Luna woke early the next morning, slipping silently into the shower. Her eyes stung from the lack of sleep as the steaming water flushed over her body. She wanted desperately the sating of a long luxurious shower, but she couldn't afford to still be there when he awoke. She had a lot to do to today, and she needed to have a clear mind, if that was even possible now, to do what she needed to do. She felt like she was lighting the fuses and counting to three.
She finished her shower as quickly as possible and grabbed the bathrobe that hung on the back of the door, slung it on and hastily and wrapped her long dripping hair in a sterile looking white towel. The robe had been saturated with is smell; she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She jerked herself from the reverie and picked up the brush that was lying on the counter; laced with red hair she ran the natural bristles through her tangled hair.
Dressing quickly she pinned her hair up with a pair of hair pins that had been left in the drawer beneath the sink. Slipping into the soft cotton t-shirt and jeans, she found a pair of house slippers that sort of fit her feet; she gave herself a quick glance in the mirror and decided she had looked worse for the wear. As she walked past the bedroom she could hear him still sleeping, snoring softly. It took all she could do move on past and not return to him one last time before she left. She felt a warm smile draw out across her face; how long she stood there she wasn't exactly sure. She felt the words form in her head, and she said them there so many times… but no matter what she couldn't bring herself to tell him.
Looking around the place she sighed heavily, as she expected she grieved at her condition, it was just her now on the Island of Hope, she thought and grabbed her satchel and hauled it over her shoulder. Someone would end up regretting what had happened there last night, and she was sure it would most likely not be her. It gave her s bit of a drowning feeling. She turned and grabbed the handle on the front door, turning it as quietly as she could; the door creaked softly on the hinges as she opened it.
Just as the bright sun filled her eyes, so did the silhouette of a person; Luna had to shield her eyes to see who it was. She saw a mirrored reaction from the figure standing before her.
"What are you doing here?" said the female voice on the other side of the threshold, in a cold, bitterly icy voice, looking her up and down sizing up the situation she had not been meant to see.
"I suppose I could ask you the same question." Luna smiled.
Luna saw the wide spread flush on the woman's face.
"Can I come in or do I have to stay out here on the stoop?" Ginny flustered a bit.
Luna backed up and held her hand out in a gesture for the woman to enter. She heard the floorboards overhead creak softly as someone walked across the floor.
"Remus, is that you?"
Luna looked up and saw Harry's Aunt Petunia standing at the top of the stairs, her pink floral housecoat pulled securely at the waist.
"Didn't mean to wake you Aunt Petunia." Ginny smiled and had a guilty look on her face.
"Nonsense," Aunt Petunia said as she descended down the tortured step. "Luna!" Aunt Petunia had a look of surprise much like the one Ginny had had when she answered the door. She gave her the once over, not taking long to realize that she had been there all night. She cleared her throat.
"Aunt Petunia," Luna said softly.
"Yes, well," Petunia said gingerly, trying to ease the tension, "why don't I make a spot of coffee, and some breakfast for us?"
Before either of them could answer she disappeared off into the kitchen.
Luna saw Ginny fully taking in her appearance, her eyes lingering on her wet head. Then down to the jeans and shirt she had chosen to put on, a muggle t-shirt with long sleeves advertising a brand of beer down one sleeve, and a pair of Harry's jeans that hugged her hips snugly, and had to be rolled up twice. Luna let her glare fall to the way-side, had she'd known they would be having a family reunion this morning she would have left with out as much as a shower.
Ginny had a comment on the edge of her lips; it was cut short by a voice at the stop of the stairs.
"Ginny?" Harry said from the balustrade, looking down into the small entrance hall. He had obviously barely just pulled on his jeans and was ramming his arms through the sleeves of his shirt when he came to the landing.
Just what she had wanted to avoid, Luna wanted to disappear into the wall. She wished Harry didn't have all those damn charms and spells on his house where you couldn't apperate and disapperate to or from the house. You could move from room to room easily enough but that was it.
He reached the bottom step and looked at Luna in her appearance and with much different underlying tones than that Ginny had given her.
"Harry, I didn't realize you had company," Ginny said saturating the air with her last word.
"I'll go help Aunt Petunia," Luna said giving her self the perfect escape, although she wanted to know what had Ginny at Harry's house that early on a Saturday morning, she also didn't want to explain how she ended up there.
GINNY watched Luna disappear down the hall and through the kitchen door. Clearly Harry was doing just fine; he was getting on fine without her, and with Luna. She saw her wet hair, his clothes on her petite body, and house slippers that for a moment she thought might be hers. She could only assume she had spent the night there, but she thought, it may not have been what it looked like. Who was she kidding, Harry was peachy keen, he was in fact more than peachy—he looked at ease.
She hated Draco at the moment—but she couldn't say that it was jealousy she was feeling, well maybe just a little twinge.
"Ginny?"
Ginny snapped from her thoughts.
"Is everything okay," he asked.
"Oh," she said turning, mentally shaking her head. "Yes, everything is fine. I just haven't talked to you in a while."
He raised his eyebrow, then narrowed then tilted his head.
"Been busy," he said running his hand through his hair.
Obviously, she thought.
"Yeah, Ron said you had." She felt tensed and very awkward, she felt like she was intruding. "So I see you and Luna have worked things out," she said barely audible.
Harry shoved his hand through his hair again, and let out a long exaggerated breath.
"I don't know," he answered quietly. "It's hard to cross a bridge that you burned."
"I can only imagine," she agreed, feeling as if she were walking on the hot ashes of one. "This is awkward," she finally said.
He laughed. He laughed at her. It was the same laugh Draco had when he told her she was jealous. But he had been wrong about one thing; she wasn't feeling the visceral connection like she did with Draco. That was good, wasn't it?
"It was unexpected," he said with a smile.
But not regretted, Ginny thought.
Why did she care, she had made her choice.
Guilt. That was what it was, she was feeling guilty; that was it. Guilt made her come to see him. But she had to admit she didn't expect Luna to answer the door, freshly showered and looking completely and utterly, dreamy. Not her usual dreamy either.
"It's okay Harry, you don't owe me an explanation," she commented, remembering Luna standing there in Harry's clothes. She had never really noticed how pleasantly proportioned Luna had been, okay so she lied, she had noticed before all women notice other women—it just didn't mean anything to her until then; she was much more petite than Ginny had ever realized.
Harry was silent, he was sizing her up. Never had she been so glad for an interruption.
"Coffee is ready dears," Aunt Petunia called from the kitchen.
"Care for some coffee?" he asked.
Ginny said nothing and nodded her head, following Harry into the kitchen.
Luna barely said three words at breakfast. She only answered direct questions to her, nothing more, and nothing less. Finally she excused herself to the drawing room; there were a few letters that she needed to write, including one to her father and her photographer for The Quibbler. Ginny spent nearly an hour with Harry, discussing everything but what she had really come there to talk about. But what would it matter now, he was trying to move on, and that's what she wanted, wasn't it?
"I ASK SO very little of you," growled the angry man, clad in black and his hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, standing in the center of the solarium. "And you can't even track her down." The evening sun filtered in the stained glass, illuminating him giving him an immortal glow.
"I'm sorry, but she is very good at what she does," whimpered the other man standing near the entrance. His large frame and extremely long arms gave him the appearance of a troll.
"Yes, I am well aware she is very good at what she does," the man seethed, wrapping his glass writing pen in his hand. "You couldn't find the least bit of silt, nothing to track her down?"
"No sir, nothing." Shifted the man nervously, bowing his near bald head to look at his oversized feet.
Whipping around, his nostrils flaring, the man in black snapped, "She must have someone helping her, somewhere."
"We checked Potter's house, and nothing, he isn't even attempting to cloak us."
"Maybe he doesn't know he is helping her."
The human troll looked hopeful that he wouldn't be cursed into next week.
"What about Sullivan?"
"Not with him either."
"McLane?"
The man shook his head. "No sir."
"Get out of my site."
The man turned and left the solarium quickly.
The man growled and picked up a small glass figurine throwing it hitting the fireplace sending glass shards sprawling over the flagstone floor. He was running out of time; when they put the pieces together and they would, he would need to be ready for them. And when they did finally figure out this labyrinth of deception they had better be ready for him. He had trampled over the very delicate laws of balance and he wasn't about to stop now, not when he was so close to his domination of not just the wizarding world, he wanted it all, each and every realm that there was to control.
With a sick sadistic smile on his face he stormed out of his beautiful solarium and down the hall, he stopped and tapped a blank space on the wall, and before him a large wooden door appeared. He took a deep breath and opened the door, inside sat a small girl at very delicate looking table; it had been lain out for tea.
"Daddy!" squealed the little girl, white blonde ringlets caressing her cheeks. "You're just in time for tea." Her blue dress ruffling out from under the white pinafore as she bustled around her table.
"Am I," he said moving across the room to where the cherub faced girl sat.
"Sugar," she asked picking up the mini-sized porcelain tea pot, pouring him piping hot tea in the fragile little cup aligned with roses.
"Yes, please." He sat down as gracefully as he could in the miniature chair.
"Cream?"
"No thank you," he answered her properly, and then took the cup from her chubby little hands.
"Isobella," he said softly, and then sipped his tea. "Can you do something for daddy?"
The large, piercing blue eyes widened on the angelic face.
"What is it daddy?" she asked as she sat down in the chair across him and smoothed her pinafore like a little lady.
"Do you think you can find mummy for me?"
The little girl's breath hitched in her chest.
"You want me to look into it," she sounded a bit nervous.
"Yes," he said looking desperate.
"But mummy told me I shouldn't," the little girl cowed slightly. "That I might see things I shouldn't see."
"But mummy may be in danger, and we need to find her," he explained, "and I think mummy will be okay with it if you look in the ball for that."
"Okay daddy," she answered softly. "But if it gets scary, you have to take it away."
The man stood and bowed to his daughter and said in the most resonating voice, "You have my word Princess Isobella."
"Daddy, you are so silly sometimes." The little girl laughed and ran to him.
He picked her up and kissed her cheek.
"And you are so beautiful Princess Isobella, in fact," he said, "You are the most beautiful Princess in all the land.
"Just like mummy?" She looked at him as if she dared him to disagree.
"Yes, beautiful," he said staring into her perfect face, "just like mummy."
"Daddy?" she said in the most innocent voice. "If you want to see mummy now, all you have to do is look in here." She lifted the locket on the end of a delicate silver chain around her tiny neck.
He let his daughter slip to the floor, and he kneeled in front of her.
"I have a picture of mummy too, my Princess." He said taking the carved locket in his palm.
"Do you have one that talks to you?" She smiled wide.
He narrowed his eyebrows, still with a smile on his face.
"No I don't," he said smirking. "So I just open the locket and mummy will talk to me?"
"No, this is a secret locket," she explained to him. "You have to tap it three times, then kiss it, then turn it seven times around your neck, and then call mummy's name."
"Really?" He was rather impressed.
She nodded her head, sending her curls in a bouncing frenzy.
"You want to try it?"
"May I?"
Her eyes were bright, her curls still bouncing.
"Tap it three times," she instructed, "right here on the snake."
He tapped his large finger on the snake three times.
"Now kiss it."
He pressed the warmed metal to his lips.
"Now around seven times, and you have to count out loud."
He counted out loud to seven as he rotated the locket around his daughter's petite neck.
"Now you have to call mummy's name," she added with a smile.
"Cecelia," he said softly to the locket.
"No, you have to say mummy," she sniggered.
"Mummy," he said even softer than he had said her name.
The locket began to glow, a soft light coming from inside.
"Now open it."
He gently clicked the lock and flipped the locket open.
"Bella?" he heard her mother's voice inside the locket before it fully opened.
"Hello Cecelia," he said in a silky voice as he saw her face come into focus inside the polished metal. He held the locket firmly between his thumb and forefinger, he could feel her magic, and she was near, very near.
Just then the door burst open and the troll looking man ran into the room.
"Sir," he said impatiently.
Holding up a finger for him to be quiet he looked back into the locket.
"Is she okay?" Celia said in a near panic.
"She is fine my dear," he answered smoothly.
The troll moved hastily across to the where he was kneeling in front of the little girl. He bent and whispered something into the man's ear. A contented grin spread over his lips. He nodded his head and then the troll man left the room in a bigger hurry than whence he came.
"I want to talk to her," Celia scowled from inside the locket.
Isobella turned the locket around and began to speak to her mother.
"Hi mummy," she said and waved to her.
"Are you okay Bella?" asked Celia a bit panicked.
"I'm fine mummy. When are you coming home, I miss you." Isobella chirped.
"Are you sure?" she asked her daughter again.
"Yes, mummy," the little girl answered, obviously picking up on distress in her mother's voice. "Daddy and I were just having tea."
"That's lovely darling," she responded a bit more reposed.
"Isobella, daddy needs to speak to mummy, in private talk," he said dulcetly to his daughter. He removed the necklace and ushered the blonde headed child to play with her dolls, then turned away from her so she would be sure not to overhear him. He looked into the locket and could see the delicate face of the child's mother looming with anger and tinge of something else that he couldn't quite place his finger on.
"I must say Cecelia; you have thwarted me for over a week," he said with a smile, "I am impressed."
"What do you want," she said quick and to the point.
The fire in her eyes burned through to his center and she was always quick with her tongue.
"It's not what I want, it's what I need."
"Don't patronize me."
"I am not accustomed to begging Cecelia. I would like to see you, in the flesh."
She was silent for a long moment.
"Call them off," she hissed.
"I can't do that," he said coarsely. "It took me a while to find you my pretty, and I won't loose you again."
"Call them off."
"Do I have your word that you will come of your own accord?"
Again she was silent for a long moment.
"Do I have your word?" he said maliciously.
He knew that she knew he was only keeping the locket open to keep her using her magic. The more magic she used, the more residue she would leave behind making it easier to track her—should she not agree and try to flee again.
"You have my word," she ground out.
"You have a quarter of an hour to show your face to me," he snapped the locket shut.
He strolled back over to his daughter and placed the locket back around her neck.
"Is mummy coming home?" she asked brightly.
"Yes, she is coming," he answered; he wasn't feeling as prosperous as he wanted, there was something different about her he couldn't quite pinpoint.
The little girl paused from brushing the tangled hair on the half dressed doll and looked up at him with a sadness he hated to see there.
"Why doesn't mummy live with us anymore," she asked, the corners of her tiny lips turned down.
"Sometimes, when adults," he sat down on the floor next her and picked up a doll and brush, "can't agree on something, it is best that they don't see each other for a while."
"Oh," she said raking the dolls hair.
He knew she wouldn't understand the answer he'd given her until she was much older, but for now it would have to do.
"I hope you agree with her soon Daddy," Isobella looked up at him with sad eyes.
He didn't say anything, because the fact of the matter was her mother wouldn't agree with him. He knew it would come down to him forcing her, and that was a route he didn't want to take. He could have done it a long time ago, when he was a different man and not batted an eye; he could cast the Imperious curse on an infuriating opponent when they wouldn't see things his way. But not her.
Cecelia was a very unique woman, a woman that he knew if pushed she would be someone not to trifle with. Sweet the sting was the day she infiltrated into his life, his mind, his core. Women had always been folly for him; having Veela blood, it wasn't very hard to procure one. But she was immune and it drove him mad. And every since, she had become something of a quest, and though he had conquered her body with much determination, he had yet to penetrate her mind.
"Milord," said a gruff voice from the doorway.
Looking up he could read the expression on the man's face; she was here, his hell-cat was there.
"Sit still Princess," he told his daughter.
"Okay daddy," she said sweetly.
Patting his jacket for his wand, he briskly walked down the hall and into a narrow corridor with a door at the very end. Taking a deep breath he placed his hand on the brass handle and pushed open the heavy oak door, he walked inside and closed the door behind him. Standing in the center of the sun-lit room, with her back to the door—there she was, donned in high-heels with straps around tiny ankles only accentuating her faultless legs and a black dress that clung to every perfect arc of her body. Her sun kissed hair was spilling from the top of her head; ringlets straying here and there. He wanted her to turn around, but he knew she would torture him and not give him the pleasure just yet. She knew he wanted to see the delicate cherub like features of her face, her crystalline eyes, and her ever pouting mouth. He had told her on more than one occasion that he could look at her mouth all day and never bat an eye.
"How dare you sick your hounds on me," she said angrily, her back still to him. "And the next time one tries to man handle me," she sneered, "he will find him self neutered."
"Not even a hello kiss?" he said holding his hands up as he walked slowly to her.
She glanced irritably over her shoulder at him, only to turn away from him too soon.
"I have made that mistake before," her voice was cynical.
"And was it so bad?" he asked, her spicy warm scent filling the room and overwhelming his senses.
She didn't answer. Nothing. She shifted and he could see her arms hugging her waist, her slim fingers reaching around herself, painted that deep crimson shade of red that he so loved to see against his skin. The onyx and diamond bracelet on her slender wrist sparkled brilliantly in the evening sun filtering through the stained glass. He wanted to feel her; no that was an understatement, he wanted to take her. But touching her was like touching glass, every time he did, he bled, and he didn't like to bleed. He clenched his jaw and felt his fists tighten at his sides. The problem with their relationship wasn't how much they were different; it was how much they were alike.
"I asked you a question," he said again, only inches from her now, so close he could feel the heat from her body. "Was it so bad?"
He swallowed so hard he felt the muscles in his throat ache.
"No," she said at length.
A smile curled his lips; she might be a lot of things, but she would never lie to him. That was one of the things that made her so dangerous. He saw the whole of his undoing, wrapped up tightly in the woman standing before him. And yet every siren was going off in his head he could barely keep his composure.
He remembered the day she showed up on his doorstep; shivering and soaking wet and clad in white linen. Her gingered-blonde curls plastered to her face, she had been walking around for hours in the cold rain—and though far from it, if ever there was a portrait anywhere of a fallen angel, that was it. The scene burned forever in his memory.
He drew a deep and fortifying breath, wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. Immediately his body reacted, the soft curve of her shapely behind pressing into him. She could deny it all she wanted, but the instant heat between them was irrepressible. The muscles in his mouth clenched, he splayed his other hand against her jaw and turned her head, guiding his lips feverishly to hers. With him behind her, and her head angled, he had complete control over her mouth. He felt his other hand grasp harder to abdomen, gripping her tightly in his hold.
He could feel her fighting to keep from drowning in the sensation of his mouth on hers. He had long learned the weaknesses of his hell-cat. Giving in to her own selfish desire she bit his lip, he could taste the blood trickling into his mouth.
"Bloody hell," he growled, "you truly are after blood aren't you."
A long mesmerizing second she gazed at him and then it was as if reality mentally slapped her, and she remembered why she was there. Wrenching from his hold she backed up away from him, flustered and oh so pissed.
"No," she hissed. "I won't let you do this to me."
Reaching out he took her firmly by the arm and pulled her to him; a mere inches from her beautiful mouth again. "Do what?" His ache pressed painfully into her again, he could feel the warmth radiating from her center, and uncontrollably like a viper his tongue slipped out and licked her bottom lip.
"I gave you what you asked for," she let her head pull away from him, looking up at him through thick painted lashes. "I want out."
He let his grip loosen on her arm. She was right he was a good liar, except to her. But he had a reputation and he had hidden so many things from her, that she didn't trust or believe him any more. This was her fault, he had slipped up and allowed a true emotion to run rampant and uncontrolled through his veins, and he was completely consumed by her. He knew this wouldn't be the end of it, which is why she enlisted Potter's help. He removed his coat and lay it over the footstool near the settee, he began to unbutton the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up his sleeves, as if he were about to delve into a messy mission.
"I don't want to do this Cecelia," his voice silky, "but I'm sure your Saint Potter would love to know the things that I know." He steadily closed the gap between them, pulling her to him again with a hand around her waist and a fist buried in her hair.
Her eye's narrowed on him in anger, her nostrils flared; her lips curled into something that only a fool would consider a smile. She did not like being backed into a corner; oh he knew that all too well. But he wanted her, and if this be the only way, then so be it.
"I hate you," she hissed, he could feel her press deliberately into him.
"As you remind me often," his mouth ground out into her neck, "and yet here you are."
Her skin burned his tongue as it trailed down her neck to the exposed cleavage. Damn all the infuriating buttons on the front of her dress. He had a good mind to shove the maddening couture up over her hips, bend her over the settee and plunge into her, hard and fast, not even bothering to remove her knickers.
Obviously she had given much thought to how this meeting would go, and she wanted to torment him as much as she could. He would bet that she even wore gartered stockings underneath the smooth fabric, and would bet his wand that her breasts were captured by satin and lace: black, with a front hook clasp, he liked to unfasten them with his teeth.
She could deny all she wanted, but deep down she was as defiantly addicted to him as he was to her. Laughter spilled around her, sinister, husky, erotic, dark laughter. She was satisfied in his reaction, she'd expected this, he thought as his hand ripped the shimmering buttons on the front of the dress, sending them pinging to the floor.
He growled at the sight: black lace and satin, cupping and pushing the milky white skin held within. The line was no longer clear, who was playing into whose hands now? Maybe it had taken their daughter longer than she expected to tell him about the locket, the thought drifted faintly into his mind as his eyes raked down the rest of her curves, the garters holding up the nylons, a thin strip of satin barely protecting her from him; an obstacle soon to be removed.
"That was a very expensive dress," she growled, his hand in the small of her back pressing her body harder into his.
"I'll buy you another one." His mouth slanted down and on top of hers.
"You bought that one," she said into his kiss.
Finally, and it had taken her damn long enough to do it, her hands slowly and painstakingly unfastened his trousers. She was a demon, torturing him, tracing the tip of his desire languorously with that wickedly painted finger. He spun her, removed her dress, and unceremoniously tugged her knickers to the side. Before he could begin to even think straight, he had her bent and was buried to the hilt inside her. He hissed at the searing heat, reaching beneath her lifting her so she was half standing, her breast firmly grasped in one hand while the other buried in her hair, his mouth on her ear.
Then an abhorrent thought ran through his mind, she had been with Potter, and she knew that he knew. A blinding jealousy raged through him, white filled his mind, and it didn't leave until he felt every muscle in her body tighten—for him. As soon as he heard her, his body followed suit, he went rigid and moved violently into her. Again his hand splayed her jaw, and turned her neck, the look in her eye's dark and suitable to her; still there was something there, a look he had seen before.
Once more the dark sinister laugh echoed in her chest, he sucked in a breath from her sudden movement. Then as ungraciously as he had bent her over the settee he withdrew from her and pulled up his trousers. He cleared his throat and grabbed her dress from the richly upholstered ottoman and handed it to her, trying to regain a bit of self-control. She took it in a deliberate fashion and began to slip her arms back through the sensuous fabric, pulling it together at the front. He waved his hand lazily and the buttons found their way back to the front of her dress, pulling the fabric nicely back into place.
She was making him uneasy, she hadn't said a word; only a very satisfied smile donned her face. And it wasn't only from the hot sex they had just had. He ran his tongue on the inner side of his lip; he could still taste the blood there, raw and irritated matching his demeanor.
"I will see my daughter now," she said unequivocally, smoothing her dress down over her hips, as if she had only just had a nice cup of tea.
Was she giving him a command?
She probably expected him to deny her; he studied her intently and leaned against a desk that sat near the rear window. Crossing his legs at the ankle, he braced his hands on either side of him. Just what was she playing at?
"Of course," he said softly, "on one condition."
She snapped her head up, he gaze deadly.
"You must stay for dinner."
He knew she wouldn't deny their daughter her company.
"Is that all?" she said disbelieving, producing a small mirror and a tube of lipstick, painting her lips the deep crimson.
His tongue ran across the tender swollen cut on the inside of his lip; he would play her game, he needed her to trust him again. If he pushed her too much, she might shut him out again.
"Yes."
She studied him for a long encompassing moment; sizing him up, looking him in the eyes. The smile had faded from her face as she searched his; her eyes blinking slowly her bottom lip returning to the ever pouting stance. Without as much as a word of acknowledgement she turned and left him alone. He could hear her heels echoing in a determined cadence down the hall.
He laughed to himself; he was getting sloppy in his years. He then caught glimpse in the mirror, it was good to have Veela blood; he looked younger than what he was, and was more active than most men his age. Lucius Malfoy smiled broadly at his reflection then followed the remnants of the quick footed hell-cat down the hall.