Lucius did not return for several hours, and I took this as a good sign on the Professor's behalf. Admittedly, I was beginning to enjoy the limited amount of time I had spent with him, although I was still slightly afraid that he would one day jerk back the curtain that was containing my façade.


I was drinking another glass of wine, sitting at my vanity, looking closely at my reflection. I was getting older, this was true, though not in an unflattering way. I still had the youthful flush of my skin, and there were no lines or weather carved into my face. My hair was lustrous yet, and gray did not fleck the surface. Only my eyes were different, older somehow. I always had large, darkish eyes, but now they seemed gigantic in contrast. There was a sadness that loomed in them, an unhappiness that was very tangible.


I sighed, rather displeased with this discovery. I was still beautiful, no doubt, and still attractive to the opposite sex, judging from the Professor's reaction, but a spark was diminished.


The door sounded behind me and I automatically rose and folded my hands. Lucius strode in slowly, admiring the tasteful decor of my room, and the canopy of deep red that adorned the center.



I smiled at my husband, for even then I loved him. He came up to me, and placed his fingers on the back of my neck, rings sensually warm on my skin. He kissed my face, soft, scented lips moving down. I tilted my head up to the ceiling, not because I was offering myself to him, but because I suddenly found that tears were beginning to form rotund dewdrops in my eyes.


His other hand gently lifted the hem of the robe, almost questioningly at first, but I nodded, almost imperceptibly in allowance. I liked that my husband and I shared a mysterious bond, that he knew which boundaries not to tread upon, and that there was a weird, synchronized rhythm between us.


Suddenly, he pushed my back on the bed, hand still dangling a whisper above me. He loosed his hair, and it rained on me, a lavender curtain of masculine silk, I wrapped my fingers around the back of his own neck, and drew him in for an uncharacteristically intimate kiss. I felt him start back in surprise, and his eyes widened. His hand almost immediately found its way to my hip, where it rested.


I raised my legs slightly, allowing him to rest between them, on top of me. He slithered up my shirt, gently finding a breast, and kneading it with a husbandly familiarity.


Both his hands slithered up my shoulders, to find his leverage, and he entered swiftly, almost detachedly. I watched his face, and his eyes were closed in what would appear to be an inflection of prayer. He kissed my head, and drives harder; this is where I begin to enjoy it, this rutting like two dignified animals.


I moaned softly, and he smiled at me, hands smoothing over my face. He kissed my forehead again, then found my mouth sloppily, planting kisses anywhere but. I want to know what he's thinking suddenly, to realise what is behind the steely curtain of his eyes and the shockingly pale pallour of his skin. I want to behold my husband, without pretenses or disguises, but as quickly as this desire enters me, so does fear. Perhaps I do not wish to know what business Lucius conducts in his studies, or wherefore he goes out in the long silent black cape. I know that to look upon him without these stiffly concealing guises would be terrifyingly real.


And that is why my mind buds with the picture of Severus Snape, former nemesis and professor, arched above me, face joylessly composed as he drives into me, long, skeletal fingers twirling themselves in my hair and cold indifferent lips clamped wordlessly on my own. I gasp, for I was not expecting this rather startling, but vaguely erotic image.


I wondered (discreetly, as my husband in still within me, and I am convinced of his seer like abilities) if my Professor kept his eyes shut during sex, or whether he let them bore holes into his paramour's skull. I want to feel him against me, the lean gaunt form of muscle and bone pressed unmercifully upon me, choking out every last breath.


I open my eyes again, and Lucius slides off, satisfied and pleased with my unusually forthcoming show of excitement. In an almost tender gesture, he takes my face between his hands and kisses me. But at the moment, it's anything but tender, because I can only picture him crushing my skull, a delicate, ruby red eggshell.


He put his head on my stomach, and it felt like a deadweight. I rubbed him absently, still wondering why on earth I would dream of fucking an otherwise entirely repulsive man. Lucius stretches his neck to look at me, and I feel the coiled muscles of his throat against my belly.


What do you think of him, Lourdes?, he asked, a bit sleepily. I take my time to answer, fanning his hair out so it covers my breasts. It doesn't do to have a civilised conversation whilst still naked.


Professor? I honestly don't know. I hadn't really cared for him in school, I said thoughtfully. And it was true, though perhaps a morbid fixation would have been a more suitable phrase.


Draco didn't like him either. Found him to be slightly dodgy. I must say, he is rather a stick in the mud, isn't he, darling? You both seemed terribly uncomfortable at dinner, he replied. I laughed, his head moving slightly up and down with the sudden motion.


I haven't any idea about the stick in the mud part, though he is quite morose. I didn't know what to say, Lucius, I was sitting across from one of the most loathsome professors at school. I cannot honestly say that there would be a decent comment among us, I said. Lucius smiled fondly, and reached out to stroke my collarbone.


So, in one word, my Lourdes, what would you describe him as?, he asked me, flipping over so that the silken sheets made a wheezy protest. I hesitated before answering him, for Lucius took one word replies very seriously. He had always believed that brevity earned more honesty than one thousand words, and I tended to agree with him.


Interesting. Ambiguous. Brilliant. Slytherin, I said, staring down my husband's cooly interested gaze. I expected the last bit to humor him slightly, but he nodded in agreement.


Even if I find that I care little for him, I must agree that he is the essence, the most refined and purest base of Slytherin, he said.


With that he rose, a toweringly massive form. His muscles (he was still vain) rippled in the dark candlelight. I leant over the edge of the bed and flicked my tongue out, tasting him.


He tasted like crystal snow. Tasteless, odorless, almost devoid of color, yet with a distinct flavour that cannot be defined.


And suddenly, I was acutely aware of it.


My husband tasted of death.






















A/N: I know its weird and sick, but I really cannot imagine Lucius tasting of anything lively or fresh. Many describe Snape as having a distinct Lavender or Sage flavour, but I think there has to be something darker. Maybe cyanide or belladonna spiked lavender or sage, but always something lurking. Lucius, on the other hand, is much like the famous Macbeth quote: Look th' innocent flower/ but be the serpent under't.