Fic: "Conservatory", Lucius/Narcissa, Bellatrix/Rodolphus, PG-13
Title: "Conservatory"
Author: scythia
Word Count: 853
Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa, Bellatrix/Rodolphus, assorted Slytherins
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Before the Death Eaters, before Azkaban, before Harry Potter, there were garden parties -- and there were the Black sisters.
A/N: for alliante,who gave me ages ago a fic request with the prompt 'Lucius/Narcissa -- if the wind takes right and you don't take fright, you can smell that french perfume.' No HBP spoilers.
Ah. This is why Lucius Malfoy loves summer vacations: the young girls in their dresses, their perfect pale dresses opening for him like chrysanthemums, and he moving through them like a gardener with shears, precise surgical skill, green green thumb. Take a moment, now, breathe in, fresh-washed hair and fresh-cut grass and perfume kept stoppered up in cut-crystal vials for evenings such as this. For men such as him. For him.
Ladies, says Lucius, and is gratified by the rustling. They love older men. They love attention. They love him. Lucius smiles. I was just thinking of how I had a reservation for two at Clos du Bois Saturday next and no lovely lady to sit at my side. There are several girls there but he is looking only at one, the youngest daughter, lovely blonde Narcissa. Oh? she says, and smiles, and sips her champagne, and plays with the ribbon on her fan. Flora Smythe is pretty and petite and has a black bob cut straight across her forehead and she lifts her chin and says throatily how divine she thinks that restaurant is. So Lucius walks away with a date with Flora Smythe, a dirty look from John Parkinson, her boyfriend, and not so much as a second look from Narcissa. Poor shy thing, thinks Lucius, and goes to talk politics.
Bored? says Narcissa. Bored, pouts Bellatrix. Porky? says Narcissa. Porky! says Bellatrix. Portia, o, Portia! calls Narcissa to Portia Goyle, makes sure her lout of a brother is nowhere in sight. You shall never guess what I just heard! But o, I mustn’t say, says Narcissa. Musn’t say! chimes Bellatrix. O tell! says Portia, breathless. I heard that Rabastan is so taken with you, with you in that pretty yellow dress, but he hasn’t the nerve to kiss you, o Portia! says Narcissa. And waits. And off trundles Portia, like a stick of butter in her ridiculous dress, to Rabastan preening in a corner. It is lovely vaudeville, says Bellatrix, o pretty puppets, and moves her fingers in time to the show:
RABASTAN preening. PORTIA interrupting. RABASTAN miffed. PORTIA coquettish. RABASTAN appalled. PORTIA leaning. RABASTAN scheming. PORTIA oblivious. RABASTAN kissing. PORTIA swooning. RABASTAN dropping. PORTIA sobbing. RABASTAN laughing. PORTIA escaping.
O, says Narcissa, horrid, horrid boy! Horrid, says Bellatrix. Perhaps it’s true what they say, says Narcissa. …they say… murmurs Bellatrix. What? sobs Portia. That he was found in flagrante in a closet with James Potter, says prim Narcissa. But you mustn’t tell! Mustn’t tell! echoes Bellatrix, and off trundles Portia again, a determined glint in her eyes.
Bored, says Bellatrix. Bored, nods Narcissa. Conservatory? says Bellatrix. Go, says Narcissa, and off she goes to the leafy moistness of the glass conservatory, Rodolphus behind her like a small boat in her wake. No one sees them go except Narcissa, and Severus Snape hovering over the desserts, touching none, eyes on Narcissa and following her gaze. He looks from her to Bellatrix and back to Narcissa, and she holds his gaze until a flush starts beneath his sallow skin then looks away and Narcissa goes in search of prettier prey.
You bitch, hisses Rabastan, laughter following after him.
You’d laugh to hear it, but many years later when Lucius is in Azkaban what he misses chiefly is his wife. Is Narcissa. Lucius sits in the center of the floor, as far away as possible from the rocks which always seem to be oozing something or other, and remembers how on their wedding night as Lucius was standing in the bedchamber faintly irritated while Narcissa took a hot bath for an hour, then emerged, damp and flushed like the inside of a shell, the scent of a thousand flowers floating on the steam behind her. The steam collected on the crystal glass in his hand and he put it aside, disgusted: who wanted whiskey that tasted of lilacs? But Narcissa met his hand before it fell, took the glass and ran her finger along the inside rim then along the perfect pink curve of her mouth, and smiled at him like a cat, and Lucius felt something that might have been his heart clench, just for a moment.
But now it is before Azkaban, and these lovely people make coquette’s eyes at death and play at torture, and Portia is hoarding her small vengeance in a corner, and here comes Bellatrix stalking out of the conservatory and Rodolphus trailing afterwards, eyes glazed and shirttails a shambles but still his shellacked hair sits perfectly on his perfect head, and Narcissa looks up at livid Rabastan blankly, flicks her eyes over to Lucius, proud and young and power just now curling around him obedient and treacherous as vines, and he comes up to her defense.
He kisses her hand and leads her to the dance floor and he thinks that he's won and he tells her not to be so shy. I think we could have fun together, you and I, says Lucius, and twirls her into a cloud of her own perfume. She comes back into his arms, cheeks ever so faintly flushed, and looks up at him, and smiles her flawless innocent smile.
Author: scythia
Word Count: 853
Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa, Bellatrix/Rodolphus, assorted Slytherins
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Before the Death Eaters, before Azkaban, before Harry Potter, there were garden parties -- and there were the Black sisters.
A/N: for alliante,who gave me ages ago a fic request with the prompt 'Lucius/Narcissa -- if the wind takes right and you don't take fright, you can smell that french perfume.' No HBP spoilers.
Ah. This is why Lucius Malfoy loves summer vacations: the young girls in their dresses, their perfect pale dresses opening for him like chrysanthemums, and he moving through them like a gardener with shears, precise surgical skill, green green thumb. Take a moment, now, breathe in, fresh-washed hair and fresh-cut grass and perfume kept stoppered up in cut-crystal vials for evenings such as this. For men such as him. For him.
Ladies, says Lucius, and is gratified by the rustling. They love older men. They love attention. They love him. Lucius smiles. I was just thinking of how I had a reservation for two at Clos du Bois Saturday next and no lovely lady to sit at my side. There are several girls there but he is looking only at one, the youngest daughter, lovely blonde Narcissa. Oh? she says, and smiles, and sips her champagne, and plays with the ribbon on her fan. Flora Smythe is pretty and petite and has a black bob cut straight across her forehead and she lifts her chin and says throatily how divine she thinks that restaurant is. So Lucius walks away with a date with Flora Smythe, a dirty look from John Parkinson, her boyfriend, and not so much as a second look from Narcissa. Poor shy thing, thinks Lucius, and goes to talk politics.
Bored? says Narcissa. Bored, pouts Bellatrix. Porky? says Narcissa. Porky! says Bellatrix. Portia, o, Portia! calls Narcissa to Portia Goyle, makes sure her lout of a brother is nowhere in sight. You shall never guess what I just heard! But o, I mustn’t say, says Narcissa. Musn’t say! chimes Bellatrix. O tell! says Portia, breathless. I heard that Rabastan is so taken with you, with you in that pretty yellow dress, but he hasn’t the nerve to kiss you, o Portia! says Narcissa. And waits. And off trundles Portia, like a stick of butter in her ridiculous dress, to Rabastan preening in a corner. It is lovely vaudeville, says Bellatrix, o pretty puppets, and moves her fingers in time to the show:
RABASTAN preening. PORTIA interrupting. RABASTAN miffed. PORTIA coquettish. RABASTAN appalled. PORTIA leaning. RABASTAN scheming. PORTIA oblivious. RABASTAN kissing. PORTIA swooning. RABASTAN dropping. PORTIA sobbing. RABASTAN laughing. PORTIA escaping.
O, says Narcissa, horrid, horrid boy! Horrid, says Bellatrix. Perhaps it’s true what they say, says Narcissa. …they say… murmurs Bellatrix. What? sobs Portia. That he was found in flagrante in a closet with James Potter, says prim Narcissa. But you mustn’t tell! Mustn’t tell! echoes Bellatrix, and off trundles Portia again, a determined glint in her eyes.
Bored, says Bellatrix. Bored, nods Narcissa. Conservatory? says Bellatrix. Go, says Narcissa, and off she goes to the leafy moistness of the glass conservatory, Rodolphus behind her like a small boat in her wake. No one sees them go except Narcissa, and Severus Snape hovering over the desserts, touching none, eyes on Narcissa and following her gaze. He looks from her to Bellatrix and back to Narcissa, and she holds his gaze until a flush starts beneath his sallow skin then looks away and Narcissa goes in search of prettier prey.
You bitch, hisses Rabastan, laughter following after him.
You’d laugh to hear it, but many years later when Lucius is in Azkaban what he misses chiefly is his wife. Is Narcissa. Lucius sits in the center of the floor, as far away as possible from the rocks which always seem to be oozing something or other, and remembers how on their wedding night as Lucius was standing in the bedchamber faintly irritated while Narcissa took a hot bath for an hour, then emerged, damp and flushed like the inside of a shell, the scent of a thousand flowers floating on the steam behind her. The steam collected on the crystal glass in his hand and he put it aside, disgusted: who wanted whiskey that tasted of lilacs? But Narcissa met his hand before it fell, took the glass and ran her finger along the inside rim then along the perfect pink curve of her mouth, and smiled at him like a cat, and Lucius felt something that might have been his heart clench, just for a moment.
But now it is before Azkaban, and these lovely people make coquette’s eyes at death and play at torture, and Portia is hoarding her small vengeance in a corner, and here comes Bellatrix stalking out of the conservatory and Rodolphus trailing afterwards, eyes glazed and shirttails a shambles but still his shellacked hair sits perfectly on his perfect head, and Narcissa looks up at livid Rabastan blankly, flicks her eyes over to Lucius, proud and young and power just now curling around him obedient and treacherous as vines, and he comes up to her defense.
He kisses her hand and leads her to the dance floor and he thinks that he's won and he tells her not to be so shy. I think we could have fun together, you and I, says Lucius, and twirls her into a cloud of her own perfume. She comes back into his arms, cheeks ever so faintly flushed, and looks up at him, and smiles her flawless innocent smile.