"Love is enough: have no thought for tomorrow If ye lay down this even in rest from your pain, Ye who have paid for your bliss with great sorrow: For as it was once so it shall be again.." (William Morris: "Love is Enough" II)
Lucius looked at her intently, his left brow arched and his grey eyes suddenly clear again. She squirmed. "Well, see, it seems it's becoming a national past-time to say it, these days," she babbled. "You know, you had me pass it on to Draco, you signed your farewell letter to me with it, probably just a summer-of-love kind of thing…" She tried to read his expression: contempt, incredulity, amusement? She could not tell. "Say something," she finally growled. "Hell, keel over laughing, if you feel like it, but give me something." Strangely enough he smiled, a small smile, it barely curved the corners of his mouth, but it reached his eyes.
"Avoiding the issue as usual, my dear? Turning your eyes away, wielding humor like a blunt weapon? All the time I've known you, you've deflected anything that would ever come close to having to give yourself to me. Agreed, I never had a problem with your body, but the rest of you – piecemeal, glimpses, to be taken away as quickly as they were given."
She bit her lips. There was truth to what he said, but then she remembered. "How do you handle being a mistress to someone like yourself, then?" she asked, feeling upset by his accusation. "You were married. You had more Death Eater secrets hanging around than other wizards have enchanted household items. I didn't want to intrude. I didn't want to make unreasonable demands. I didn't want to get hurt."
He nodded, his face still calm, the smile still in place. "And I never complained, did I, in all the six years? Even though sometimes it was hard to accept. When you left without a word after our first night together, when you accused me of betrayal without even bothering to hear my story, when you turned away from me the night after we fought the chief Death Eater. I understood, I knew what you were up against.
But now you've said it, and you are already taking two steps back. What are you afraid of? If you mean it, then you should stand behind it, no matter how I feel. If you don't, do me the courtesy not to use it to cure a mere case of post-torture depression."
He moved closer to her, his voice dropped. "If I asked for it, would you give me everything? Would you let me know I had your heart? I am apparently not a Death Eater any more. I am not married any more."
His hands cupped her face, lightly, gently, but his eyes pierced her. She took a deep, shuddering breath. For a moment she thought: 'If the devil asked for your soul offering no prize, would you give it?' But that's what love truly was, to give everything, and to ask for nothing in return. Like her grandfather, like herself, Lucius subscribed to the tenet that the ultimate destiny for a witch or wizard was to follow their will. It had been part of his farewell and testament to her. Now he was testing her. Was love for him her will? Then her feelings should have merit on their own, no matter what he felt. If not, her declaration truly was an insult to him and to her.
Lucius might not be a Death Eater any more, but he still had the ruthlessness, even in this relationship, to make her prove it, to test the purity and single-mindedness of her intentions. She realized that it was part and parcel of why she loved him: his contempt for compromise, his focus, the way he managed to be always true to himself, the way he demanded the best from everyone else. She admired him for it. For six years she had played with fire, taking precautions so she would never get burned. She had denied him the chance to prove himself to her. It was time to take the gloves off and find out whether she could handle the heat.
Eleanor brought her eyes to focus on him, took a deep breath and controlled her voice. "I love you," she repeated. He lowered his head for a moment, and when he looked back, he answered her. "Then let me love you back. For once don't just let me fuck you."
She cast a quick look around. The place was a mess. Shattered glass and books lay everywhere, and in between, black and motionless, the lifeless figures of the four Death Eaters. She knew her petrifying spells would hold for a while longer. "Let's go upstairs," she said. "Getting pieces of patio door stuck in our backsides might kill the mood," she quipped.
His eyes flared. "Sshh! There you go again. Can't you just give it up for once? Just once?" He stood with a soft hiss of pain, pulling her up with him. She remembered the first time they had faced each other like this, close to each other, looking at each other. She had made the first move then. This time he leaned in, his heavy lids closing over his eyes as he drew closer. There was an intensity in his concentration on her that made her shiver.
He did not kiss her, but simply brought his face close to hers, nuzzling her. She felt the soft scrape of his cheek against hers, his breath close to her ear, as he held her. Then slowly, almost hypnotically, he gently kissed his way across her cheek, her temple, down the side of her nose, her upper lip, until his mouth finally reached hers. She softly hummed with the tenderness of it. As she tilted her head to kiss him, he drew back, however, and again made his lips trail across her face as if he wanted to make his mouth memorize every detail of her.
His hands came up from her sides and gently cupped her head, fingers lacing through her hair and drawing lazy circles across her scalp. "You smell like almonds," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her eyelids as he kissed across them. She closed her hands in the fabric of his robes, holding on, as she suddenly felt she could not trust her knees to keep her upright any more.
It had never been like this. They had done passionate and furious, they had fought each other for control, they had played games and kept scores, they had challenged each other to test their limits, to try the outrageous, they had measured success in the currency of stamina, of athletic ability, of how much they could stand, the amount of pleasure they could create for themselves and each other. They had done pretty much everything – just not this.
"Come," he told her quietly. "Come with me, let me show you. Let me see you, as you truly are." He laid his arm across her back and walked her from the battle scene and up the old creaky wooden staircase to her small bedroom. The sun had risen behind the chestnut tree in front of the house and now shone through the leaves painting mottled green shadows on the floor.
He stood and faced her. "Do you trust me?" he asked, and she shuddered. It had also been his question during their first night together. 'For tonight, completely,' she had joked then. She swallowed. "Yes, Lucius, I trust you," she told him. Again he moved in to kiss her face, and as his caresses reached her mouth he stayed this time. It felt like a first kiss, new somehow, tentative, even shy. She was trembling by now, aroused beyond measure, even scared, incredibly awake and alive.
He moaned softly as his tongue met hers, the vibrations of the hum shaking her, and she brought her hands up to his face, trailed her fingertips across his cheeks, his jaw-line, touching him as if she had never felt him before. The kiss seemed to last forever, and for once it didn't feel like just another piece of foreplay. It simply was itself, right then, in that very moment, and nothing else mattered or would matter – ever. 'Like there was no tomorrow,' she thought fleetingly, immersed in the touch and scent of him.
He finally released her lips that now felt stung and swollen. She looked into his eyes and smiled. "'I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword that bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, Curled gently, slowly…" she murmured. He lifted a brow, gave her a half-smile. "It's beautiful, but I do not recognize it." She brought her body closer to him. "An old poem about a lady who gets shot in her knight's arms by an arrow as they flee from their enemies, and he never realizes it. Your mouth has always reminded me of that line, the way pain and pleasure, love and death, feel so close with you."
His hands moved over the clasps and buttons of her clothes, stroking her as he slowly unwrapped her, taking his time as if she were a precious gift. "And which one pleases you more?" She placed a small kiss on his chin. "That sometimes with you I cannot tell the difference," she murmured. Fabric dropped to the floor with a soft rustle. "Yes," he told her quietly. "Death can be the greatest gift, life the cruelest curse. And pain given in love can be sweeter than pleasure given with hate. The dark arts teach this, but the white wizards don't want to know. You've always understood."
His hands trailed over her bare back and she gasped at the sudden piercing pain she felt. He looked at her in concern. "Turn around," he told her. His fingertips gently moved over her skin. "Broken glass," he said. "Hold still." She felt a sudden sharp twinge, then another one, as he pulled the shards from her in swift decisive moves. "Pain given with kindness," she smiled as he turned her back. As a response he simply held her to him and kissed her again. It did not feel as if he tried to soothe her. He had simply done what needed to be done, and now continued his exploration of her. To feel him fully clothed against her seemed strange and her hands sought for the buttons of his robes.
He appeared to be in no rush and granted her the same leisurely pace in undressing him as he had taken with her. She savored uncovering him slowly, reacquainting herself with him with strangely sharpened senses: the play of light and shade on the tendons of his neck and the ridges of his collar bones, the silky tenderness of his skin just where his pectorals met the curve of his shoulders, the scent trapped in the short wiry hair that accented his chest.
Her nostrils flared as she caught the indefinable heart-note of his smell she would have recognized anywhere as his, but it was overlaid with the sharp cold odor of agony and fear. She clenched her teeth, and as she looked at him again she now saw the faint glow of bruises under his skin, like cancer-growths of hate and malice. Her hands traced their outlines against his ribs, his abdomen, his flanks. 'Cruciatus,' she thought, with anger welling up inside her.
For being without magical abilities, he seemed to have an uncanny ability for legilimency. "It doesn't matter," he told her gently. "None of it matters now." She took a deep breath and let it go. 'No plans for revenge from Lucius Malfoy, that's a novelty,' she thought idly. He truly was in a strange mood today. His touch and his caresses remained slow and gentle, but insistent, preternaturally focused. She felt drugged by them, overwhelmed, far more than by his usual more forceful love-making.
Warmth spread through her, flowed together at her core, heating her in throbbing waves of heaviness until she felt herself stagger under an invisible weight. His hands, his lips were everywhere, tasting her, kissing her, stoking, kneading. Her flesh burned. The world shrank until it fit into the small dappled space of her room, and he expanded until he filled her universe. She felt her heart race, claustrophobia stifled her. Any other time she would have backed out in some way, with a quip, with a game, but she had promised she would not hold back any more.
She allowed herself to sink into him, to allow nothing but his presence in this very moment, until she could take no more. "Need you," she gasped, clutching at him, terrified at the absolute truth in what she'd just said. His slow persistence had broken down every defense in his path. How could he make her feel like this? There had been occasions where he had had her bound, physically immobilized, at his mercy, and she had never been this vulnerable.
His face lifted from hers and he looked at her, his grey eyes heavy under lowered lids. "You have me," he said quite seriously. But he backed up to the bed and settled down on the mattress with her without letting go. They now knelt, facing each other. His lips were on her neck and she closed her eyes and tilted her head backwards, allowing him access as his teeth raked across her throat, glad for being able to break eye-contact with him for the moment. Her last vestiges of self were fraying, and yet he kept pushing. She knew wetness already slicked the insides of her thighs. How long? How much more?
When she felt his mouth leave her, she looked back up at him through half-closed eyes. The skin at her neck seemed raw and cool as the trail of his kisses dried under his breath. He sat back on his heels, his hands lying lightly on her hips, and regarded her. 'Great, just when I'm a complete mess,' Eleanor thought, but suppressed the urge to squirm under his gaze and met his eyes instead. They seemed inexplicably green in the shady twilight of her room and reminded her of cat's eyes, with the same serene predatory cruelty in their pale depths.
Lucius paused, because just then, seeing her like this, she took his breath away. Her confession earlier had come as something of a surprise to him. It did explain a lot, but its timing seemed as impossible now as it had before. He wasn't even a wizard any more. Everyone else had turned their back on him because he was now no better than a muggle. What did she want with him?
Still, he would have lied had he said it did not please him beyond measure. She had been maddeningly elusive, for all the long years he'd known her. He had soon found that her soul could not be reached through her body, no matter what or how hard he'd tried; nor through her mind, regardless of the wit and intelligence he employed. There was an innermost essence of her that seemed off-limits and that she would not let him touch. Used to possessing what he desired, he had wavered between fascination and exasperation at her refusal.
Now for the first time she had shown him a chink in her armor. She had been weak, because just then, in her living room he had been weak – he still detested himself for giving in to his depression and feelings of powerlessness before his enemies. But she had been right. She took her strength from him. So now she had countered his failing with lowering her own guard. He saw his chance, and he would not let up until he had broken through.
She knelt before him now, her slender frame swaying slightly as he gently steadied her hips. She had no words for him, no barriers to hold him at bay. The creamy skin of her breasts and neck showed the light pink marks of his mouth and teeth. Her face was flushed, her lips reddened with kissing. He knew that thin rills of crimson marked her back where he had pulled the shards of glass from her flesh. Daggers of sunlight played over the tangled mane of her coppery hair, highlighting curls like sudden leaping flames. Her eyes remained on him, steady, attentive, but not wary. There was no challenge in her gaze, just deep calm and a strange acceptance. He heard her voice again. 'I love you.'
He pulled her to him, nudging her legs apart, so she now straddled his knees. He felt her hands on his shoulders as she held on to him and found he had to look up at her now. His fingers trailed over her body, silky skin shivering under his touch. He dipped into her core and found her flooded with desire and anticipation. "This will not be quick," he murmured. "No matter how ready you are." She lowered her head and bit her full, magnificent lips.
"You can always tell,' she said, her voice husky with anticipation. He thought he detected a faint blush on her face. He placed a gentle kiss on the center of her chest. "We have possessed each other's bodies from the first night we've met, so by now I should. It's the rest of us that's another matter."
His hands traveled back to her hips, and without another word, she reached between them. Her eyes never left his as she gently trailed her fingers along the hard, heated length of his cock and placed him at her entrance. He held himself completely still in anticipation as she slowly lowered herself onto him until they touched stomach to stomach, skin gliding over skin, her ass flat against his thighs.
He felt her embrace him, her hands sensuously stroking his back and then she buried her face at the side of his neck. Their position restricted her movement and only allowed her a deep churning movement around him as she now began to restlessly rock her hips. Still he felt he had to concentrate on keeping his runaway arousal in check. He didn't want to rush. He missed seeing her, reading in her face what he was doing to her, judging how far along she was.
He ran his hands over the small of her back and licked his lips. "See me. I am right here. Don't turn away from me. Don't hide from me, Eleanor." He spoke softly, did not want to command her this time, and as she looked at him the surprise in her eyes told him that she had not expected him to ever plead with her.
He lost count of time as she moved her face over his, kissing him, letting him kiss her, whispering quietly to him what his body was doing to hers. They might have spent a lifetime in this way and Lucius slowly felt his anger, his pain and despair drain away until finally even his resolve to conquer and possess her frayed and faded. By then his body was thrumming with pent-up tension. Something had to give.
Gently he bent forwards and tilted her back, until she lay on the mattress, cradling him between her thighs. He looked down on her, his hands resting on either side of her head. She hadn't let go. He stretched out, laced his fingers in her hair and pushed deeper inside of her. A gasp from her lips and quick lowering of her lids told him what he needed to know. Holding back was not an option any more. And it seemed she felt the same way. Her hands moved down his back to clasp his ass and she urged him forward and into her, her nails digging into his flesh. "Lucius, now!" she begged him. "You're killing me."
"The both of us," he grunted and abandoned every restraint as he drove himself into her harder and faster with every thrust. He heard her cry out beneath him as her body curved around him and her core gripped him in her climax. For a moment he found himself teetering on the brink, the pressure of it unbearable. Then his own release crashed over him in waves, as he felt himself being poured into her.
He held still above her for a few moments, face buried in the pillows, catching his breath, willing his racing heart to calm. Then he lifted his head one more time to look at her. The deep green sated depths of her eyes met his gaze. She bit her lip. "Lucius," she whispered, her hand trailing over his face.
He inhaled deeply, remembering the basic principle of working magic that his father had drilled into him from the first day he could remember: 'To will, to dare, to speak, to be silent.' He was sure of his will. Did he dare speak it? He locked eyes with her and told her what should have been said a long time ago. This was his incantation, his spell to her. "I love you, Eleanor. I always will." And as he looked into her eyes, he found he could still work magic after all.
'To be silent.' He let himself sink into her smile and her acceptance and knew for the first time in weeks that no matter what had happened and what might still be in store for them, this was a respite, a moment of peace, and that he had won – they had won.
The line of poetry is taken from the poem "Concerning Geffray Teste Noire" by William Morris.