Chapter Text
The world around them had changed, Lucius knew. Everything had been born anew.
He rested his hands on the windowsill and felt the curve of the wood beneath his fingers. Ones like him, ones that made up the world so few knew, were courted and feared.
Vampires.
They were creatures that reveled in youthfulness, their lives a millennium compared to their muggle contemporaries, ones that past in the blink of a muddled eye. He lived life reveling in the purity of his line, the superiority of his species, and in his siren appeal. Quite the same as every Malfoy Lord had before him. He had been the heir his father had dreamed of, after his mother went through a succession of miscarriages, before bringing Lucius, and later, his brother Draco to the world. He had been feted and adored since birth and lived life exactly as he wished.
Without doubt, without downtrodden regret.
If he were like Severus, he would wonder if their unchanging natures were unnatural for the world around them, one that reveled in uncertainty and chaos. His friend had always been a thinker, Lucius frequently teasing him that his mouth would forever stay downward, and his dark eyes narrowed as if he were a churlish tutor; one that took pleasure only from rapping their students knuckles, and ripping apart the essays they labored over (even the purest heirs forced to endure private schooling). His friend had always laughed at that, reluctantly or not, neither of them able to imagine him tutoring anyone.
If he were Severus, he wouldn’t be alive at all.
His lips curved downward, at that.
"Shoo," he murmured as if he could blow his grim thoughts away, like the wolf in the muggle fairytale, that she delighted in making him read to her. He reveled in the sound of her laughter, and the feel of her cheek against his. Impatiently she waited for him to turn the pages, saying the words alongside him. “Shoo, shoo, shoo.”
But she - Hermione -
she could stay.
Salazar Slytherin had been the first among them to walk in the night, spurning the light of day. He’d feasted on the purest of humans, turning those deserving into his younglings. The Malfoys, the Notts, the Blacks, the Lestranges, and twenty-four other families knew that Salazar's blood ran through their veins. They were the sacred, the special, yet only the Gaunts had an undisturbed line, never marrying outside the family. They were revered, until the line had faltered, their last female, Merope, a frail, and appalling woman.
Regardless, someone had bedded her, and the result made Riddle, Lucius mused.
His mad mother had hidden him away, and he had lived at the fringe of the court, before coming of age, when he'd burst from his cage and on to the stage. Courtiers had smiled behind their hands, amused by the restrained, handsome youth who was said to have ambitions for the title of Sire. It was an honor given to the foremost amongst them, the one with the purest blood in their veins, a de facto crowning. They would be assured the loyalty of the pureblooded families and lead the coven as they wished. Their last Sire, Dippet, had been a weak, yet amusing creature, one that had passed after being rammed with a stake through his dusty heart.
Unfortunate, really.
Leaving no heir behind, parties had quickly formed behind the aged, and grave Dumbledore and Riddle. Riddle was charming, and he was precise, even in his rages when he’d Crucio'd the elite among them during an intimate party, after one (desperately in his cups, after drinking muggle blood) had insinuated his bastard heritage.
Merope hadn’t been married to the man she’d laid with, had she?
No -
Riddle was a bastard, as pureblooded as he was (though, some whispered, his father hadn’t been one of them at all. After all, if one of theirs had fathered him, surely they would have claimed him by now; proud of the specimen that he was...).
Yet their smiles had faltered when the court had discovered Bellatrix Lestrange strung from her bed, with blood dripping from open veins in her wrists. She'd crowed before them all that she would tame the young Riddle through infatuation - through love - and none had doubted her. She’d always been disturbingly passionate about her ideas, just as she was in bed, as most among them knew. (Lucius was fortunate enough not to, aware enough of the madness that ran through the Black line. He’d rejected a betrothal to Bellatrix’ sister, Narcissa, allowing the honor to pass to his younger brother, Draco, instead).
It was doubtful Bellatrix had found success; her body abused and hung as it was.
Afterward, Riddle’s assumption came swiftly, and brutally; those who sided against him ruthlessly murdered: the Potters, the Weasleys, and Dumbledore himself came to their ends. It was then that his friend, Severus, went mad, and threw himself from the belfry, fool that he was.
He’d never gotten over Lily Potter, even as she’d accepted James’s proposal; a matter that Lucius had never understood. There were others, he’d told Severus, who’d never spoken to him again.
A matter that Lucius still ignored (his fingers curled inwards, and his nails pressed against the flesh of his palm when he thought of it). The court shone brilliantly under its new Sire, and manners reigned, with debauchery running beneath it all.
It was a matter of taste, Lucius thought, one that Riddle did well.
He took to ruling as if he were born to do it, wielding his power as one would a cane against their sniveling, hunting dog. Lucius had taken care to cultivate a relationship with his Sire, never one to shudder against shedding his skin for another. Self-preservation was a trait known to the Malfoys, ones that the dynasties murdered by Riddle had sneered at.
The Weasleys - the Potters - nearly the Notts and Longbottoms -
Lucius kept a list carved into his skin, one that he knew by heart. He wouldn’t see his dynasty amongst their name, not as he opened their magnificent library to their Sire, and shared the Malfoy stores of vintage blood to the court.
They would last, as they always had.
Endlessly.
It was spring when the court found her.
Riddle flaunted her before them, his secret, his treasure.
With wild curls and honeyed eyes, Hermione danced before them, not one courtier snickering or sneering. They were entranced by their sire’s secret, his temptation, as he watched her with them. Secure in his power, he’d chosen to reveal her to them, the one he’d never wanted to share with another.
Why?
“We wish it,” Riddle had said simply, to one who’d dared to ask, as he sprawled on a velvet chaise, and his sister lay with her head in his lap. She'd said nothing, instead continued to turn the page alongside him, as if time itself was waiting to bend to their will.
They had the same eyes, the court whispered, as if they’d seen something horrible, something they could never let go of. Lucius knew every rumor as if they were ticks that burrowed beneath his skin and cultivated every whisper he’d heard.
He knew that the half-siblings were close, closer than anyone knew. Riddle had changed her, making her his first - his only youngling. He fed her from his own wrist, as she was loath to feed on humans, the true reason behind her absences from their feeding revels. He taunted her, and teased her, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear - Hermione, his precocious half-sister, a dhampir until he had made her whole.
Their mother had tangled with a muggle man, a human, and had born a child because of it. She was raised beside Riddle, some said, while others insisted she’d been smuggled away to some godforsaken country before Riddle had found her after their mother revealed his sister's existence on her death bed.
Hermione was their uncrowned queen, the only one who spent hours with their Sire alone, and spoke to him without care; ignoring if he scowled, and had a temper that matched his own. They were fierce in their passions, and in their thirst for knowledge, fascinating their court to exhaustion with their discussions. Often they seemed to forget the world about them, until Riddle pulled back, and welcomed the courtiers again.
Oh yes, Lucius watched them, missing nothing as Riddle tangled his hand in her curls, or when she leaned against him; her head nodding forward as the night bled into day, and a game piece or book dropped from her hand. She had little reservation, and little tact, charming and infuriating in turn.
Where her brother was cold, a fierce cold that settled into one’s bones, she was the fire that swept up the world whole. She was life amongst the court, threatening to burn them all, as she danced and played among them, making them question their beliefs.
Their reserved, and stiff-handed beliefs, the ones that Lucius himself unfailingly followed.
‘Hermione,’ he thought, feeling the weight of her name on his thoughts. ‘Hermione, our little queen, our pretty play-thing.’ She fascinated him, the wretched, little thing.
She was said to make companions of the elves that served them (their blood unpalatable to their masters) and allowed one to hold her hand. It was unthinkable.
Monstrous.
And curious, Lucius said privately, to the peacock that laid its head in his lap, ‘was it not enough that she had a foul, furry beast at her side?’ The mangy kneazle had appalled the court, as it kept pace beside her, its enormous head and smashed face reaching her waist, and long tail frequently toyed with her curls.
And beside Hermione was their sire, the man that adored her. They said that Riddle delighted in her, trusting her as much, or perhaps more, than he did his familiar Nagini, a perverse snake that was said to delight in playing with its prey, before letting it pass between its jaws.
Did Hermione protest at that, Lucius wondered, as she did at drinking from humans?
"Tell me, little queen," he murmured and felt his lips curve upward.
He knew that she watched him, as he did her.
He felt her gaze on him when he practiced his archery, well aware of how his robes fit his elegant frame. He took care with his appearance and delighted in the long, platinum hair that he’d inherited from his father. It was stark amongst the bleakness of his robes and accentuated the paleness of his throat.
One that was without a mating mark, as hers was.
It was doubtful that Riddle would allow her to mate, tongues wagging that he would take her for himself before the next season began. Relationships between sires and their younglings were known, just as the Gaunt family was fond enough of its incest.
Still, Lucius found himself called to her; a black ribbon wound about his peacock’s wing, one that he saw often enough about her neck.
And he came, on his hands and knees, before her.
She was a girl, lost in the echoing room.
Her room was a marvel of green and gold, with the ceiling above them reflecting a moonlit sky, as if she were in the world outside. Books towered over every surface; her vanity, her nightstand, her bed, while a few, velvet-bound, classics were spread across the floor. Some were open, their silk pages lovingly worn, while others were closed, marked instead with black ribbons. And amidst it all, in the flickering candlelight, his little queen stood.
She wore a chaste nightgown, with ribbons that ran down the front. His fingers ached to untie them, and slip the gown from her shoulders, letting her stand before him in her naked state. They would be equal then, for as her eyes met his, he knew she saw through him.
"You came," she murmured.
He inclined his head. "Who would I be to refuse your request, Madam?"
Her title was acidic on his lips, yet she smiled still. She moved to her desk, where a caged dove rested, its head tucked against its breast. Hearing its mistress approach, their head raised, and they cooed; eagerly flapping their wings. And he felt himself come to her, standing beside her as if they were the same.
He teased her, remarking that it was strange she played with her food, the bird eliciting a low sting in his throat. There were lesser ones, dhampir, that were known to feast on four-legged creatures.
Lucius had never understood the call of furred or feathered skin, not when one could follow the graceful column of a human throat, and feel the softness of their skin before sinking one's teeth into their nectar.
"Do you enjoy a mouthful of feathers, Madam?"
Her eyes had darkened, but she'd said nothing as she crooked her finger, letting the pretty dove step on to her hand. It cooed and flapped its wings, making its owner laugh.
Her laughter was the same as the Madonna singing, and he felt his gaze harden as it rested on her.
"A charming display," he said, and she smiled as if they both knew he hated how truthfully he meant the words.
He pulled her against him before he left, in the moments before servants would come to her door. His fingers curled beneath her chin, and he tilted her face up to his. "Is this a game, Madam? Are you to be my cruel mistress? My new fate?"
"I won't be cruel," she replied simply, her lips curving into a smile. "I won't tame you, Lucius." Her hand cupped his cheek, and she stepped on the tips of her slippered toes. "I want you, as you are."
He kissed her then, his lips harshly tasting hers. She tasted of cherries, and spice, and sweet life; a taste that made him groan, and he hardened against her as if he were a youngling again.
"Say my name," he said then. He wouldn't be a replacement for another, not as he coveted the silly queen for herself.
"Lucius," she replied. "I want you, Lucius."
Then in her sweet, and terribly honest voice she said, "please."
And he was lost, and he was damned, a man made undone by the feel of her arms tangled about his neck, her lips at his temple. It wasn't about the saving of his skin or seeing his sister in law, Cissy's, pregnancy came to term, but the woman in his arms.
He knew only her, and nothing of the world.
And so, he was, as he found himself beside her.
Beneath her. Behind her. Against her. Any, and every way that he could have her, he did.
He adored his little bird and the sweet sounds she made. She came alive when she rutted against his hand, mewling as his bejeweled fingers spread her open, and played with her nub. She was wild and unfurled, catching his hand with her thighs, and holding it there as if she would have him pleasure her without end.
He happily would, for her.
Happiness - he felt it with her as if he were a fool again. He kept his chambers, as she did hers, but he knew the steps to her bed by heart. They tangled together, Hermione swathed in golden silks, while he cradled her against his somber finery. He adorned her skin in kisses, chaste and harsh; scraping his canines against the swell of her breast, and the curve of her calf. She laughed when he suckled on her fingers, her laughter turning into moans as he nipped at her skin and drew blood from her. It was ambrosia on his tongue, the honeyed taste like nothing he'd had before.
And he wanted nothing - no one - else.
They played in the bath as if they were both idle younglings; delighting in splashing water over each other, and covered their hands in foamy bubbles, eventually blowing them at each other. There was nothing he wouldn’t do with her, not even as she took him from behind, as if she owned him completely.
Perhaps she did.
He felt himself alight when she gasped, feeling the strap-on as she slipped it onto herself, before lubing the end of it. It was an allowance he'd allowed no lover before her and found he enjoyed it as she took him, wrapping his hair about her hand, and tugged his head back, forcing him to meet her entrancing eyes. He could lose himself in them, the pleasure that crested between them like nothing he’d enjoyed before. He knew her bed alone, and found that she was loyal to him in turn, though he knew she dallied with a Bulgarian, frequently giving him English lessons; and strolled the gardens with his own brother, though their relationship was nothing more than verbal sparring, and a shared competition at the games they played.
There was loneliness that burned within her, one that he wondered if anyone else, including her brother, saw. For no matter how the court adored her, she was a flame that one circled about but never drew closer. Except for him, and her brother, their taunting sire, who played with his sister as if she were his possession. Did he wonder about her feelings? Taste the salty tears that clung to her cheeks?
No - he knew that Riddle did.
Their Sire was playful and cruel, where his sister was lively without malice. Riddle coveted her as he did power, wanting to keep them beneath his heel, as a master would his heir or his hunting hounds. If there was tenderness between them, it was something Lucius never saw. Not even after he had Skeeter, in the form of a beetle, skitter beneath their door and watch from where she clung to the velvet curtains, what the siblings did when alone together. (Until he'd found her pretty wings slipped inside of his jewelry box and knew she'd been crushed beneath Riddle's heel).
There were times when she drew herself into his lap and tucked her head beneath his chin as if she were nothing more than a child, and he wrapped his arms about her as if he could shield her from the world. He'd take her like that, slipping beneath her skirts as she whimpered, and mewled when he played with her tender breasts, and kissed her cheeks, her freckled nose, her lips - as if she were his, and he was hers without another. Sometimes, he swore she looked like a cherub, with a faint blush streaking across her cheeks, and over her chest. He wanted more of her, more of her time, her body, her soul.
Her laugh entranced him, as she tickled her cheek with his hair; and peppered him with questions about where he'd been, who he'd been, and everything else that arose in her pretty, ever thinking head. There was nothing that he spared her from, though he never mentioned the lovers he had before. They were inconsequential in comparison to her; she was without equal. His words were thick with double entendre, and appeals to her heart, though he was loath to say so.
If she were his, he would have her mated, and bred before the next season; Lucius forever feeling himself harden at the thought.
What would it be like, he reasoned, to have her beside him without end?
He was sure that she’d gleaned it from his thoughts, the teasing, knowing minx that she was.
She wanted to open him up and dissect him as if she could understand who he was by the shape of his organs, and by tasting the blood that flowed through his pure veins. And he told her everything, in his charming, and cool way. His tell only she knew, noting the curve of his lips, and the way he quirked his brow, that he wanted to amuse her - tantalize her, like when he filled her with the filthy lives of the courtiers about them, and the games that they played.
She laughed uproariously when he told her of how the elder Avery was tangling with his heir's betrothed, running from her quarters in the evening to his own, before the house-elves came to call. He told her too, about those expecting, and those that were happy, though he was careful not to tease her with the injustices that happened; the serious quarrels, and grudges that families held toward another. His little queen had a soft heart, and he'd quickly found that she was eager to solve what she could as if she could single-handedly change the grudges between spurned heirs or broken-hearted mistresses. No, he kept her from the underbelly of their world, coaxing her to enjoy the games that others enmeshed themselves in.
As if they too, weren’t playing their own, greedy game. She wasn’t a bird, but a spider that had entangled him in her web, and he’d gone willingly. He made no move to fight her, nor did he support the Order that formed against her brother, not even when a childhood friend had invited him to join.
He’d known, without question what he wanted to do.
What he had to.
He found himself with his head buried between her legs, smirking against her sopping cunt, as she cried out his name, and tugged at his hair until he saw stars. He’d spilled everything to her and found the reward more pleasing than the sight of Riddle’s head rolling down the steps ever could.
And afterward, he’d stood behind her, as their Sire executed the ones who’d stood against him.
Against them.
The marble floor had been painted in their blood, as it oozed from their severed necks.
Lucius felt her then, as she leaned against his back, and stretched upward on the tips of her toes, and covered his eyes with her hands. “Boo,” she said lightly, and he smiled, despite himself, and his cold pretenses. It was a muggle game, she’d explained, one that was played with children. (Once, she’d confided to him, as she cradled his cheeks and kissed the column of his throat, that it’d been her favorite game to play with her brother).
He was the one between them, the one that kept his fangs from sinking into the sweet curve of her neck.
It was his call that Hermione fluttered to, leaving him with her cum on his thighs, and a chaste kiss on his lips. He’d asked her, once, if she’d told Riddle about him.
“Of course,” she replied, as earnest as only she could be. There was little deception from her, no lies that clung to her like shimmering diamonds.
“Will he break me then, little bird?” He’d raised his brow, and hid his trembling fingers by cupping the back of her head and pressed her temple to his chest. He’d felt her laugh against him, and she shook her head.
“I won’t let him,” her arms wrapped about him, and pulled him closer still. He found that she delighted in being close to him, often tangling his arms about her waist, and his legs over hers, before drifting to sleep in his bed (often, with Crookshanks tucked against her feet, and Lucius barring his peacock from the room for its safety). “You make me happy, Lucius.”
Happier than she’d ever been.
“As if it easy,” he said, sneering at her view of happiness.
“But it is,” she replied simply, and he felt her kiss his shoulder blade. “It truly is, Lucius, if you trust me.”
He was silent, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as if to keep himself from replying. Of course, he trusted her, his little fool, his teasing queen; and would spare himself the indignity of saying so, as if he'd lost his head the same as Severus once had.
Though, if he was honest, something he found dreadfully boring to be, he reveled in feeling alive with her, his little bird, his burning mistress.
His love.
“Just you."
"Lucius?"
"I do - trust you," he murmured, feeling his throat ache with need. "Only you, Hermione."