23. Deception
The memory was as vivid as a flash of neon lightning. Sight, smell, touch, trembles; it all came back to him in a rush of sensation.
In the shadows of the bedchamber, Potter's hair had been a ruffled raven, a ragged black tuft in a marsh of sweaty sheets, the wild mane of a mischievous sprite, the unruly locks of a boy who lived, voraciously. And his moans had been nothing like the shrill, irritating lament for his lost mother, all those many years ago.
Even in the darkness, shining emeralds lurked inside those eyes. Potter's now chiselled features tasted of secreted, sticky salt and he was, as they said, hard as the proverbial rock. But oh so pliable, so very lithe and agile, wrapping his legs around Lucius's waist, arching like a fleeing larva at every fervent touch.
Though younger in years, if not in flesh, Harry Potter had proved surprisingly dominant in bed. Still, he stayed a true and noble Gryffindor at the core, matched his conduct with his fair looks, and submitted to Lucius as much as he mastered him. In their corporal communion there was a truce of sorts, a merging of dark and light, the sweat of both sides mingling in joint labour towards a common climax; peace, passion, power, all intertwined. Yet it was no less a battle than before. It was a more beautiful battle, a sizzling skirmish, but a struggle, a conquest nonetheless.
Time had passed, the biological clock had sprung back to its rightful place, but Lucius could still feel it, his body responded to the recollections of penetration and acceptance, of tingling and thrusting, sucking and clawing, yielding and trusting. And licking. Licking, lapping, laptapping. All over, but mostly Potter's forehead, savouring that scar, the mark his of master. Thick, wild hair teased his nostrils and Potter's - or his master's - magic tasted of cold metal coated in salty sweat. Sweet, addictive, intoxicating.
Then there was a sliver of light, the scar flashed before Lucius's young eyes. He drew back, frightful of some strange reaction in the infamous scar, seeing through half-shut eyelids the door, ever-so-slightly opened, and there, outlined against the light, a fairer, softer mirror of himself, marred by a look unmistakable even in deep shadow.
The door closed. Potter moaned underneath. He had not seen.
Lucius shuddered and drew a deep breath. His older eyes refocused on Malfoy manor. The chill returned. The fire had died at last. His throbbing heart lay locked in a firm, frozen grip.
There was a whisper at the back of his neck. It accused him. It had seen all. This time, it knew the truth, the truth it had had to slip into the darkness of Lucius's lost soul to realise - to reveal a mistake made by lamplight.
The family had always insisted on the remarkable resemblance. How was Harry to have known.
Such deception it was. Lies, lies, lies.
Lucius Malfoy had oft been accused of having no heart. However, like all humans, he did, but it was not an honest one, the whisper hissed.
'One honest heart,' it rasped, at the very edge of hearing.
'Two honest hearts,' it sighed.
'No honest heart,' it growled and an artic cold gripped Lucius's heart. He gasped.
'This,' the whisper intoned, 'is where you depart.'
Scared half out of his wits and knowing but one thing to do with what little he had left, Lucius Malfoy grabbed his wand, spun around, and emitted a howl of pain that seared through the silence.
In the air, his heart hovered. As his chest solidified again and collapsed, imploded, to compensate for the cavity left behind by his absent organ, Lucius Malfoy stared wide-eyed before him, gurgling something that had as its origin a wish for words but came out a dead man's last, meaningless lament.
Trailing a plume of blood, the corpse of Lucius Malfoy thumped onto the floor, followed by a patter as of light rain, a demon's clotting tears. Moments later, his heart sloshed down beside him and the creature that had once been Draco Malfoy drifted away, still seeking prey.