Stairs were a big to-do in our household, and descending down from them was a much celebrated way to show far reaching dominance. My most unclouded visions of Lucius was him walking slowly down, resplendent in his white hair and theatrical robes. He was incredibly, unnervingly beautiful, though equally venomous.

I walked slowly down the stairs, gripping the bannister with all my might, hands slick with perspiration. The familiar, flutteringly frightened feeling resettled in my stomach, and the emotion was much identified with Professor Snape. Whenever he would enter a room, or swoop down upon us, the same, sick fear would crawl into me, miserable wretch it was, and transplant itself everywhere. A brief twenty minutes in his class was torture, my hair matted with sweat, and clothing soaked. Although others assured me that he would not trouble me because I was a Slytherin, I still felt the trepidation that gripped me as a Gryffindor. Everytime he gazed at me, even in a bored, disinterested way, I would feel that he knew, that he could read what things flitted shamefully about my head, and what thoughts could cause blushes to rise to my cheeks.

Lucius came up, eyes glittering in satisfaction and pride, the Professor upon his heel. My husband took my hands, and kissed them, and for a second, as my stomach did another acrobatic assault, I saw the Professor's eyes flit wanderingly elsewhere besides my face. I nodded to them both, as aristocrats are expected, and tucked my arm inside my husband's; he smelled of patchouli again, and I suspect that it was a seduction device for one of my prettier maids.

Although I am his wife, and the jewel upon his crown, his masculinity must never be denied nor rested,and he settles for quick dalliances with my women that I employ. Because I have long since learned to turn the other cheek, I am vindictive when turning them out. Few have come to me, pregnant as the full and bloated moon, begging for a permanent placement, and it has given me no other joy than to refuse their pleas and turn them out of my house, swollen with illegitimate child and a wrathful wife's vengeance.

Although he had never come forthright and granted me the same pastime (I suspect his pride had choked him), I had, in the past, sought pleasure in another's company. I am not fond of sexual preversion, and this has often prevented me from taking pleasure up when the opportunity presents itself.

The Professor, however, was another matter entirely. I knew that Lucius would be twice as scorned had I even thought of touching him, and although he was his son's own teacher and mentor, Lucius would have not liked to hear that a hooked nosed son of a bitch had been able to bed his wife more than he.

We took our respective seats at the table, Professor seated directly across from myself, and I was again gripped with the sudden, piping hot fear that terrorized my youth. I had noticed his eyes flickering more often towards me, shaded in some indiscernible expression that was akin to satisfaction or besmusment. The servants had seat wine in crystalline goblets, emeralds (Lucius was a loud supporter of Slytherin, as I once heard Draco call him) embedded within. I noticed the Professor eyeing his with distaste, before waiving a servant's offer of the liquid. I took a hesitant sip, only coordinating my own movement's with Lucius'.

I had also noticed that the Professor downed his food less readily than my husband or myself. I suppose he had a standing distrust of Lucius, most likely equivalent to Lucius' distrust of him. I almost nothing, noticing with a lack of concern, that my apetite had been halved in recent weeks; also, anything I did consume was almost always heaved up in opposite direction the next morning.

Suddenly, one of Lucius' undermen, who worked in his office, coordinating messages and organising for him, came in, an urgently pleading look scrawled upon his rather dumpy features. Lucius beckoned towards him with a ringed finger, and the man whispered something.

Excuse me, Lourdes, Severus, I'm afraid something rather pressing had been dredged up, he said, and nodded towards the Professor and gave me a mirthless smirk. He shut the door behind him, lock clicking with well oiled ease.


















A/N: Many thanks for reviews. And just because I'm a dork, the Marquis de Sade often wore patchouli oil himself, thinking it a pheromone(correct spelling?) Anyways, More reviews appreciated and more chappies coming along.