Elle!Fic | Dark Heart Silhouette | Draco/Ginny, Draco/Astoria | Adult
Title: Dark Heart Silhouette (10/12)
Author: Elle, aka elle_blessing
Characters: Draco/Ginny, Draco/Astoria
Rating: R
Word Count: ~28,000
Summary: In a world where Voldemort won the Second War, Draco finds himself in the fortuitous position of being one of the Dark Lord's favored. The love of two women will drive him to question who he is and what he has become, but it is betrayal that set in motion the beginning of the end.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s sandbox, not mine.
Author’s Notes: This was written for the 2010 round of dracobigbang. I have taken the liberty of making Daphne and Astoria cousins instead of sisters, and Michael Corner is Astoria’s half-brother through marriage. Also, endless thanks go to fiery_flamingo, amazonmink, goddessvicky & mugglechump for helping me beta this story to make it fit for public consumption.
Chapters: Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI
@FanFic.net
Chapter 9
It was more of a revel, really, than any kind of gala that Astoria had ever been to. There were several people who were fully attired as was truly proper, but most everyone else present had taken the opportunity to indulge in the titillating theme and spirit of Samhain. There were very few people fully dressed and the costumes ranged from barely anything at all, like Draco who only had knee-length deerskin trou, to a rather brazen Gwenyth Rosier, who had only just entered society, dressed in what Astoria guessed to be a wood nymph with nothing more than a rather glittery loin cloth and strategically placed leafy attire across her chest.
It was all the gossip, she had come to learn once she and Draco had parted to socialize. Or, perhaps, it was that everyone was gossiping about everyone else. It wasn't everyday that their stuffy society literally shed their clothes, indulged in their cups and congregated out of doors, a good portion of them barefoot.
And they were certainly indulging in the refreshments. Dusky cheeked men and women had greeted them as they'd moved from their arrival in the entry hall through the crowds of people. Much of the revelry had spilled onto the grounds towards the enormous bonfires, however, and as Honoria Jones and Ophelia Cartwright continued to chatter animatedly about how scandalous Gwenyth Rosier was, dancing around the bonfires with the entertainment, Astoria found herself drinking liberally from her own glass.
She likely shouldn't be. She would need her wits if she saw her uncle or cousin, or any number of people he was in collusion with, but the spirit of the evening seem to call for indulgence with absolute hedonism as they celebrated the end to the light half of the year and their descent into the dark of winter.
Truth be told, it was rather symbolic on many levels. Not that her life had been full of any semblance of light for longer than she could truly recall, but darkness was, indeed, on the horizon. She could feel it. Astoria knew something was amiss, had known since the evening she'd been summoned and informed of her 'choice' to marry Draco. Her father had been rather progressive; he had always encouraged her to love where she would, had never had any intentions to arrange a marriage for her. She knew that was partly due to the fact that he was the younger brother and it was not their line that would carry on the family name, but her Papa had gone against the grain in many ways, that being a small one.
Her uncle had always clung to the old ways and Astoria had only been relieved for the match he'd found her. She'd half expected to find herself dead like her parents or shackled to the most cruel man he could find. It was true she hadn't known what Draco would be like as they had only had little interaction before she agreed to marry him, and her recollections of him from school were spotty at best, but he'd never instilled fear in her the way her uncle did, the way many of his associates did.
It was the best she could have hoped for given her circumstances. He was kind to her and actually listened when she spoke. His father was agreeable enough, but he rarely sought her out when he was in the manor, regardless. There was something going on, but she couldn't figure the details, and she was only too happy to be in a place that felt relatively safe. At least he didn't take his frustrations out with the back of his hand. It was something.
It was more than something, though what and how safe it was to think of such things, she still internally debated over.
She glanced about then, dark gaze searching for the object of her thoughts.
"You look radiantly lovely this eve, Ms. Malfoy," came a rumbling voice, followed by a light touch to her shoulder.
The titter of female conversation faded somewhat as all the women cast subtle, and not so subtle, glances at the handsome, broad-chested man that had come up to their group.
As she turned about, the foreign touch did not leave, only slid down her arm until a large hand captured hers when she faced the man who'd spoken to her. Her dark eyes hit his chest first, his very muscled and naked chest, but shifted up as he bent to press a kiss to her knuckles.
She didn't like him touching her, but it would be indecorous to snatch her hand back, especially as she recognized his ruggedly elegant features. She was sure this man had been at the manor before, though if he'd accompanied Lucius or Draco she couldn't recall. They hadn't formally introduced her and she'd kept to her quiet observation.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think we've been introduced. I find myself at a loss as to whom I am to thank for such a lovely compliment," she said then, not unaware that the women had shifted slightly away from her only to begin tittering again - this time probably about herself being married and approached by a strange - her gaze darted briefly to his left hand - single man.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said, all charming grace and charisma. Likely a little far into his cups as well, if the glitter in his eyes was anything to go by. "Lucian Montague." His lips curled into an easy smile and his thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, his large hand dwarfing hers. "And I was wondering if I might have a dance?"
*~*~*~*
"Montague is getting handsy with your wife, Draco," Pansy drawled from her perch on her husband's lap. Her voice was amused. Pansy was always amused, ever at Draco's expense, but that was half their friendship; Draco was honest with her about how much of a vindictive bitch she was, and Pansy never spared him her opinions on his life. Or much of anything else.
Draco had always thought Theodore Nott an especially patient and good man for not only marrying one of his oldest friends, but choosing to, even. As many matches had been arranged for a good deal of them, this one had, oddly and surprisingly enough, been a love match.
His thoughts were far from Pansy's general likeness to a harpy, however, as his gaze flicked over to where he'd been watching Astoria visit with some of the society ladies. It had seemed prudent to keep an eye on her given this was their first major event as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy; gossip ran rampant, and thought he knew her to be feistier, stronger than he’d first suspected, she was yet a delicate bloom. He had only taken his eyes off her in the first place because Blaise had pulled his attention for the totality of a half minute.
It figured Lucian Montague would take advantage of those thirty seconds.
"I would say he's just being exceedingly friendly, darling, but then that would be a lie," Pansy added, dark eyes lit merrily as she watched her friend. She had chosen not to embroil herself in the politics Theo, Blaise and Draco dallied in, but she did know that the marriage Draco had been roped into had more to do with affairs of state than any design on a good match or love. It was rather obvious by the way his eyes followed her, however, that whatever it had started as, it was a something else all together now. Even more telling was how the chords of muscle tightened in his neck and through his shoulders as he watched Montague charm his wife.
Draco wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the dark fire that licked through him as he watched Montague trace his fingers down Astoria's arm, as he kissed her hand and then didn't relinquish his hold. He was a Black; a mad darkness was at the root of them all. It was how he had inadvertently earned favor again during the war, his slip into that dark part of himself, and it was the same bitter aftertaste that had coated his mouth, once, when he’d thought on Ginny working at Nightshade.
This was somewhat different. He hadn't ever had a claim on Ginny and she never did as he'd asked anyways.
Astoria was his wife. She was his, and his alone, and the part of him claimed by the House of Black unfurled from its dark coil in the depths of what made him heir of the blood. His. Theirs. No one else’s.
Lucian Montague might know the match was partly pretense, but there were few who knew all the details and he was not one of those so privileged. Regardless of the man’s knowledge, what he was doing in front of the whole of society was a matter of honor and respect. For all intents and purposes she was his wife and Montague was making a mockery of him by touching her like he had some kind of right to. No one touched something that belonged to a Malfoy. No one touched what belonged to a Black that darkness in him insisted.
Regardless of family, honor, power and the right to possession, Draco just didn't like him touching her.
His eyes narrowed as Montague moved to lead Astoria towards the dance floor set in the middle of the bonfires, watched as the other man’s hand disappeared behind her. He knew what was at her back - nothing - and the thought of Montague's hand on the bare skin there had that darkness furling its way through him. The Black madness had no instinct but that of a predator and the shadow of it slid into the depths of his mercury gaze. Any who might happen to glance at Draco in that moment would know exactly why he was in Lord Voldemort’s inner circle, why he was a man to be feared; the hardness to his gaze was the same seen in his Aunt Bella, eyes that cared not that men died for their pleasure.
His hand was already moving for his wand and his muscles tensed as he made to stand, but Draco paused when he watched Astoria deftly slip from Montague’s shadow and presumptuous touches. He watched her lips move, words spoken, before wide dark eyes cast about the crowds.
Those wide dark eyes found his. Even through all the people, lounged as he was near the largest bonfire, she found him. Draco couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if she was relieved to know where he was and that satisfied the dark part of him still on the surface. Not moments after their eyes met, she glanced back up at Montague, lips moving again before she turned and slipped through the writhing crowds of people toward him.
It was then that Montague saw him and the burly man's brows raised, teeth flashing in a grin that was none too friendly before he shifted his gaze slightly. He was watching her, making sure Draco knew he was watching her - watching the silk slide enticingly where it hung from the curve at the base of her spine, watching the gentle sway of her hips. Draco knew what she looked like when she was walking away. It was worth a glance, but he did not like Montague's eyes on her. Or anything else of his on her, for that matter.
"Draco." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of apprehension to it that pulled him from the promise of pain he’d been glaring at Montague. "He's still watching me, and -"
Before she could finish voicing her distress for what had transpired - that Lucian Montague had touched her, had brushed his fingers over her skin in a way that made her chilled in the most unpleasant of ways and had unwittingly exposed the darkness glittering in his eyes which enjoyed the unwelcome pain of others when she'd started at his presumptuousness - Draco had tugged her fully into his lap and she found herself too surprised to finish her thought.
"Yes, he's still watching," Draco finished for her, hard mercury gaze on Montague's again as he slid his hand up her back, beneath the curtain of her dark hair. "He just needs to be reminded of his place," he added, voice low, eyes glittering at the arrogant fool as he tugged on her hair to expose her throat and pressed his lips there, skimmed them over the pulse point.
If she'd had her wits about her, Astoria would have asked how this was reminding Montague of his place, but it was a little hard to string her thoughts together in any kind of rational way with Draco's hands on her, his lips. Her pulse rabbited and heat sluiced beneath her skin like a live thing until her lids drooped, dark lashes brushing her cheek as they fluttered shut.
Astoria knew people were watching, but her foggy mind was fairly sure that's what Draco intentioned with the display. Others had been exhibiting similar behavior, and more, the closer they got to the witching hour and the hotter the bonfires burned, but such thoughts were very far from her mind. Regardless of all the reasons why she should endeavor to keep her wits about her, Astoria was helpless against her reaction, the flutter of her hand to his chest, the slight intake of breath, the heat called to her skin.
He had the satisfaction of watching Montague scowl, but it was quickly a secondary thought as Astoria shifted in his lap, as her pulse jumped beneath his lips, as the slight pant of her breath sounded softly near his ear.
She smelled so good, something soft and delicate, jasmine and rainwater. It was such a faint scent that it clung to her, soft and enticing. As he skimmed his lips over her neck Montague was quite forgotten, and he nuzzled just beneath her ear where the scent was stronger yet. It filled him, teased at the unfurling darkness inside of him and mixed into something primal and heady.
Mine, his mind supplied, and he felt that part of him that was blood and magic reach for her. He closed his eyes and set his teeth to her pulse, bit lightly, and when her breath caught, little hands curled on his chest to imprint her nails, Draco felt it surge; magic, hot and heady, already alive in the night as thin as the veil was this eve. But it was more, and as he watched the phantoms of it dance behind close lids, he realized it was the magic that bound them, the ancient rites they’d been bid to speak that could only be broken by death.
He hadn’t ever understood, not fully, but in that moment everything was crystalline. There was a part of his bloodline that only understood the right of possession, power and blood above all else, but the magic the Dark Lord was using to invoke bonds and loyalty went deeper than even death; for descendants of the House of Black, this was the stopper of madness bound in a single person - mate.
The power she held over him had his eyes flying open - so many things were falling into place; his mother and father, aunt Bellatrix - but it was in that moment that she whispered his name, soft, hesitant and warm, and his arms tightened around her, thoughts lost to the ether for now.
His hand shifted from beneath her hair to cup her jaw, he tipped her head and stole her breath, lips slanting over hers. No tentative touches, no exploration. Everything in him sang to claim the warmth, to drink.
Yes. Astoria knew this had to be wrong, but the beat of her heart said ‘yes, more, nownownow’. She was no ingénue, had kissed and been with other men prior to her bondage in her uncle’s home, but this was different. It felt right.
There was a part of her mind that started at that thought - this couldn’t be anything but very, very wrong - but the low growl that rumbled from Draco sparked something inside her and before she could think about anything else, Astoria did what she’d promised herself she never would. She enjoyed him. She shifted in his lap, slid her hands up his chest, fingers raking through his hair and she met him. Astoria opened herself; she tasted, drank from him, her own lips sliding over his.
The burning heat inside of her unfurled and something bright seemed to break free before sizzling through her veins. Magic - burning, untamed magic she realized as a phantom image flashed behind her lids of the white light sluicing through her, glowing chords filling her and spilling from her, meeting silver … meeting Draco, a nearly literal binding of magic, knots twining.
It was only a kiss. With ancient magics, nothing was ‘only’ anything.
The shock of what was happening - what had happened - was almost enough to pull Astoria out of the kiss, but it was in that moment that Draco’s hand slid over her thigh, up the pale skin exposed at the gaping slit of her dress. A tiny sound escaped her mouth and her grip tightened in his hair. It’d been so long since she had be able to be herself, so long she had been hiding behind an agreeable, subservient mask, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, Astoria felt those things that made her, fire and passion, fill her. All of this was wrong; it had been set up. The damage was done, however, and the lure of freeing her own nature was too strong.
Astoria nipped at his lip and pulled at him until their bodies were as close as they could be. It was indecorous, would draw eyes, attention and gossip, but she didn’t care and that felt good. Draco felt good.
His hand tightened on her, fingers pressing into her thigh. He would leave marks. She was so delicate, tiny. But her skin was warm, hot, and as her teeth dragged at his lips, nails bit into his skin, as she curled into him, Draco wondered how he had missed this. She was fire and heat. Much like Ginny, but where the ginger’s fire sought to consume, a pirate of souls, Astoria was the hearth, the simmering, smoldering coals to warm or ignite, a heat that nurtured the flame.
It was an addictive, subtle seduction, not to tempt for a handful of moments in time, but to inspire a hunger that needed satiation over and over and over. She was dangerous. Draco had never thought Astoria as a danger to him, but magic and blood bound them, and somehow, he had learned to crave her. Just her. The uninhibited way she responded to him, he to her, only served to drive home how far gone everything already was.
The tiny sound that slipped from her, breathless frustration and want, nearly undid him. Everything in him, everything that made him what he was, heard and responded to that one little siren call, but for the first time in several minutes, Draco was able to reign himself - because the call was so viscerally strong. He wanted her. He wanted to spill her to his bed, wanted to taste every inch of her, wanted to see how she would arch beneath his touch, how she would cry out for him, wanted to hear how his name would sound on her lips. He knew she would lose herself to him, could feel it in that burning magic, but also in the heat passed back and forth between their bodies, their mouths.
It was why Draco pulled away. They were sitting on the Nott’s grounds, exposed for all the drunken gazes to see, and he would not share that with these people. It was not unheard of, especially on nights such as this - the old ways and magic’s thick in the air as the veil between worlds thinned, as darkness laid claim to the land and drove them towards winter - but Sahmain would not claim them as tribute.
She was panting, breath warm gusts against his neck as she hid her face there, and Draco found Montague once more. The brawny man’s gaze was steady, but there was no taunt to his features now. His dark eyes were thoughtful and intent, and even from the distance Draco could see something slide through the shadows in his gaze. He had approached her at all to goad Draco, but now he wanted her.
“You should have a care with such things,” Pansy said conversationally, though Draco could hear the layers of meaning.
“Did you see … something?” he asked, mercury gaze shifting from Montague to scan about the area. He caught many other sets of eyes turned their way, that same thoughtful want a curious thing in ruddy, drunken features of a few.
“I felt it, darling. Ill-timed,” she replied before taking a long sip from her wine and tossing a smile at someone across the way. Her voice was merry though threaded with seriousness as she continued. “It believe it is a rare thing to feel it so strongly, but we approach midnight and fate is listening.”
Astoria’s thoughts were yet scattered, her skin afire, but her breathing was beginning to even, but the words being passed back and forth held all her attention. Whatever she had seen pass behind her lids had been felt beyond herself and Draco. What that meant, she was unsure.
“It is done then,” Draco said, eyes sliding back to Montague. His mercury gaze was hard, promised death for the trespasses in the shadows of the burly man’s dark eyes. Everything in him was at odds; there was the mission, loyalty to the Dark Lord, survival, but there was magic older than it all, and blood, and now there was Astoria, irrevocably his. No other man’s.
“Yes, darling,” Pansy said, finally shifting dark eyes to him. Her gaze flicked to the woman curled into him, to the shine of equally dark eyes peering at her through a curtain of hair. “He is knowledgeable, but not wise.”
Astoria lifted her head and pushed her hair from her face. He? She was missing something. She knew that the magic of their binding had been ignited, but there was something else going on. Alarm sluiced through her.
Draco pulled his gaze from Montague and looked at the woman in his lap. Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek and brought wide, dark eyes to his. He could see the heat now, could feel it tint the air just from such a simple touch. There was fear and confusion in Astoria’s eyes, however. He understood. He understood all too well now. There was a reason the ancient binding rites hadn’t been used in centuries but for the rare occasion.
It was the binding of hearts, souls, minds, blood. It was powerful and irrevocable.
It overrode all other pledges. Even ones branded into the skin.
Draco shifted his gaze to Pansy and Theo. It was the same for them, he realized, but the ignition of their magic, their binding, had not been public. It had not drawn attention or scrutiny. Its magic had not stirred anyone but themselves. It was secret.
And it could stay that way for them. Both Theodore and Pansy were safe. They were trusted.
Astoria was not. She was meant for death. And he was meant to bring it upon her.
The Dark Lord knew ancient, powerful magic, but he had never experienced that which he’d invoked. He would never bind himself to another.
Mercury eyes found Astoria’s again and he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “It is wisdom’s brother he visits,” he murmured. “Folly.”
Chapter 10
Author: Elle, aka elle_blessing
Characters: Draco/Ginny, Draco/Astoria
Rating: R
Word Count: ~28,000
Summary: In a world where Voldemort won the Second War, Draco finds himself in the fortuitous position of being one of the Dark Lord's favored. The love of two women will drive him to question who he is and what he has become, but it is betrayal that set in motion the beginning of the end.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JKR’s sandbox, not mine.
Author’s Notes: This was written for the 2010 round of dracobigbang. I have taken the liberty of making Daphne and Astoria cousins instead of sisters, and Michael Corner is Astoria’s half-brother through marriage. Also, endless thanks go to fiery_flamingo, amazonmink, goddessvicky & mugglechump for helping me beta this story to make it fit for public consumption.
Chapters: Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI
@FanFic.net
Chapter 9
It was more of a revel, really, than any kind of gala that Astoria had ever been to. There were several people who were fully attired as was truly proper, but most everyone else present had taken the opportunity to indulge in the titillating theme and spirit of Samhain. There were very few people fully dressed and the costumes ranged from barely anything at all, like Draco who only had knee-length deerskin trou, to a rather brazen Gwenyth Rosier, who had only just entered society, dressed in what Astoria guessed to be a wood nymph with nothing more than a rather glittery loin cloth and strategically placed leafy attire across her chest.
It was all the gossip, she had come to learn once she and Draco had parted to socialize. Or, perhaps, it was that everyone was gossiping about everyone else. It wasn't everyday that their stuffy society literally shed their clothes, indulged in their cups and congregated out of doors, a good portion of them barefoot.
And they were certainly indulging in the refreshments. Dusky cheeked men and women had greeted them as they'd moved from their arrival in the entry hall through the crowds of people. Much of the revelry had spilled onto the grounds towards the enormous bonfires, however, and as Honoria Jones and Ophelia Cartwright continued to chatter animatedly about how scandalous Gwenyth Rosier was, dancing around the bonfires with the entertainment, Astoria found herself drinking liberally from her own glass.
She likely shouldn't be. She would need her wits if she saw her uncle or cousin, or any number of people he was in collusion with, but the spirit of the evening seem to call for indulgence with absolute hedonism as they celebrated the end to the light half of the year and their descent into the dark of winter.
Truth be told, it was rather symbolic on many levels. Not that her life had been full of any semblance of light for longer than she could truly recall, but darkness was, indeed, on the horizon. She could feel it. Astoria knew something was amiss, had known since the evening she'd been summoned and informed of her 'choice' to marry Draco. Her father had been rather progressive; he had always encouraged her to love where she would, had never had any intentions to arrange a marriage for her. She knew that was partly due to the fact that he was the younger brother and it was not their line that would carry on the family name, but her Papa had gone against the grain in many ways, that being a small one.
Her uncle had always clung to the old ways and Astoria had only been relieved for the match he'd found her. She'd half expected to find herself dead like her parents or shackled to the most cruel man he could find. It was true she hadn't known what Draco would be like as they had only had little interaction before she agreed to marry him, and her recollections of him from school were spotty at best, but he'd never instilled fear in her the way her uncle did, the way many of his associates did.
It was the best she could have hoped for given her circumstances. He was kind to her and actually listened when she spoke. His father was agreeable enough, but he rarely sought her out when he was in the manor, regardless. There was something going on, but she couldn't figure the details, and she was only too happy to be in a place that felt relatively safe. At least he didn't take his frustrations out with the back of his hand. It was something.
It was more than something, though what and how safe it was to think of such things, she still internally debated over.
She glanced about then, dark gaze searching for the object of her thoughts.
"You look radiantly lovely this eve, Ms. Malfoy," came a rumbling voice, followed by a light touch to her shoulder.
The titter of female conversation faded somewhat as all the women cast subtle, and not so subtle, glances at the handsome, broad-chested man that had come up to their group.
As she turned about, the foreign touch did not leave, only slid down her arm until a large hand captured hers when she faced the man who'd spoken to her. Her dark eyes hit his chest first, his very muscled and naked chest, but shifted up as he bent to press a kiss to her knuckles.
She didn't like him touching her, but it would be indecorous to snatch her hand back, especially as she recognized his ruggedly elegant features. She was sure this man had been at the manor before, though if he'd accompanied Lucius or Draco she couldn't recall. They hadn't formally introduced her and she'd kept to her quiet observation.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think we've been introduced. I find myself at a loss as to whom I am to thank for such a lovely compliment," she said then, not unaware that the women had shifted slightly away from her only to begin tittering again - this time probably about herself being married and approached by a strange - her gaze darted briefly to his left hand - single man.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said, all charming grace and charisma. Likely a little far into his cups as well, if the glitter in his eyes was anything to go by. "Lucian Montague." His lips curled into an easy smile and his thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, his large hand dwarfing hers. "And I was wondering if I might have a dance?"
*~*~*~*
"Montague is getting handsy with your wife, Draco," Pansy drawled from her perch on her husband's lap. Her voice was amused. Pansy was always amused, ever at Draco's expense, but that was half their friendship; Draco was honest with her about how much of a vindictive bitch she was, and Pansy never spared him her opinions on his life. Or much of anything else.
Draco had always thought Theodore Nott an especially patient and good man for not only marrying one of his oldest friends, but choosing to, even. As many matches had been arranged for a good deal of them, this one had, oddly and surprisingly enough, been a love match.
His thoughts were far from Pansy's general likeness to a harpy, however, as his gaze flicked over to where he'd been watching Astoria visit with some of the society ladies. It had seemed prudent to keep an eye on her given this was their first major event as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy; gossip ran rampant, and thought he knew her to be feistier, stronger than he’d first suspected, she was yet a delicate bloom. He had only taken his eyes off her in the first place because Blaise had pulled his attention for the totality of a half minute.
It figured Lucian Montague would take advantage of those thirty seconds.
"I would say he's just being exceedingly friendly, darling, but then that would be a lie," Pansy added, dark eyes lit merrily as she watched her friend. She had chosen not to embroil herself in the politics Theo, Blaise and Draco dallied in, but she did know that the marriage Draco had been roped into had more to do with affairs of state than any design on a good match or love. It was rather obvious by the way his eyes followed her, however, that whatever it had started as, it was a something else all together now. Even more telling was how the chords of muscle tightened in his neck and through his shoulders as he watched Montague charm his wife.
Draco wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the dark fire that licked through him as he watched Montague trace his fingers down Astoria's arm, as he kissed her hand and then didn't relinquish his hold. He was a Black; a mad darkness was at the root of them all. It was how he had inadvertently earned favor again during the war, his slip into that dark part of himself, and it was the same bitter aftertaste that had coated his mouth, once, when he’d thought on Ginny working at Nightshade.
This was somewhat different. He hadn't ever had a claim on Ginny and she never did as he'd asked anyways.
Astoria was his wife. She was his, and his alone, and the part of him claimed by the House of Black unfurled from its dark coil in the depths of what made him heir of the blood. His. Theirs. No one else’s.
Lucian Montague might know the match was partly pretense, but there were few who knew all the details and he was not one of those so privileged. Regardless of the man’s knowledge, what he was doing in front of the whole of society was a matter of honor and respect. For all intents and purposes she was his wife and Montague was making a mockery of him by touching her like he had some kind of right to. No one touched something that belonged to a Malfoy. No one touched what belonged to a Black that darkness in him insisted.
Regardless of family, honor, power and the right to possession, Draco just didn't like him touching her.
His eyes narrowed as Montague moved to lead Astoria towards the dance floor set in the middle of the bonfires, watched as the other man’s hand disappeared behind her. He knew what was at her back - nothing - and the thought of Montague's hand on the bare skin there had that darkness furling its way through him. The Black madness had no instinct but that of a predator and the shadow of it slid into the depths of his mercury gaze. Any who might happen to glance at Draco in that moment would know exactly why he was in Lord Voldemort’s inner circle, why he was a man to be feared; the hardness to his gaze was the same seen in his Aunt Bella, eyes that cared not that men died for their pleasure.
His hand was already moving for his wand and his muscles tensed as he made to stand, but Draco paused when he watched Astoria deftly slip from Montague’s shadow and presumptuous touches. He watched her lips move, words spoken, before wide dark eyes cast about the crowds.
Those wide dark eyes found his. Even through all the people, lounged as he was near the largest bonfire, she found him. Draco couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if she was relieved to know where he was and that satisfied the dark part of him still on the surface. Not moments after their eyes met, she glanced back up at Montague, lips moving again before she turned and slipped through the writhing crowds of people toward him.
It was then that Montague saw him and the burly man's brows raised, teeth flashing in a grin that was none too friendly before he shifted his gaze slightly. He was watching her, making sure Draco knew he was watching her - watching the silk slide enticingly where it hung from the curve at the base of her spine, watching the gentle sway of her hips. Draco knew what she looked like when she was walking away. It was worth a glance, but he did not like Montague's eyes on her. Or anything else of his on her, for that matter.
"Draco." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of apprehension to it that pulled him from the promise of pain he’d been glaring at Montague. "He's still watching me, and -"
Before she could finish voicing her distress for what had transpired - that Lucian Montague had touched her, had brushed his fingers over her skin in a way that made her chilled in the most unpleasant of ways and had unwittingly exposed the darkness glittering in his eyes which enjoyed the unwelcome pain of others when she'd started at his presumptuousness - Draco had tugged her fully into his lap and she found herself too surprised to finish her thought.
"Yes, he's still watching," Draco finished for her, hard mercury gaze on Montague's again as he slid his hand up her back, beneath the curtain of her dark hair. "He just needs to be reminded of his place," he added, voice low, eyes glittering at the arrogant fool as he tugged on her hair to expose her throat and pressed his lips there, skimmed them over the pulse point.
If she'd had her wits about her, Astoria would have asked how this was reminding Montague of his place, but it was a little hard to string her thoughts together in any kind of rational way with Draco's hands on her, his lips. Her pulse rabbited and heat sluiced beneath her skin like a live thing until her lids drooped, dark lashes brushing her cheek as they fluttered shut.
Astoria knew people were watching, but her foggy mind was fairly sure that's what Draco intentioned with the display. Others had been exhibiting similar behavior, and more, the closer they got to the witching hour and the hotter the bonfires burned, but such thoughts were very far from her mind. Regardless of all the reasons why she should endeavor to keep her wits about her, Astoria was helpless against her reaction, the flutter of her hand to his chest, the slight intake of breath, the heat called to her skin.
He had the satisfaction of watching Montague scowl, but it was quickly a secondary thought as Astoria shifted in his lap, as her pulse jumped beneath his lips, as the slight pant of her breath sounded softly near his ear.
She smelled so good, something soft and delicate, jasmine and rainwater. It was such a faint scent that it clung to her, soft and enticing. As he skimmed his lips over her neck Montague was quite forgotten, and he nuzzled just beneath her ear where the scent was stronger yet. It filled him, teased at the unfurling darkness inside of him and mixed into something primal and heady.
Mine, his mind supplied, and he felt that part of him that was blood and magic reach for her. He closed his eyes and set his teeth to her pulse, bit lightly, and when her breath caught, little hands curled on his chest to imprint her nails, Draco felt it surge; magic, hot and heady, already alive in the night as thin as the veil was this eve. But it was more, and as he watched the phantoms of it dance behind close lids, he realized it was the magic that bound them, the ancient rites they’d been bid to speak that could only be broken by death.
He hadn’t ever understood, not fully, but in that moment everything was crystalline. There was a part of his bloodline that only understood the right of possession, power and blood above all else, but the magic the Dark Lord was using to invoke bonds and loyalty went deeper than even death; for descendants of the House of Black, this was the stopper of madness bound in a single person - mate.
The power she held over him had his eyes flying open - so many things were falling into place; his mother and father, aunt Bellatrix - but it was in that moment that she whispered his name, soft, hesitant and warm, and his arms tightened around her, thoughts lost to the ether for now.
His hand shifted from beneath her hair to cup her jaw, he tipped her head and stole her breath, lips slanting over hers. No tentative touches, no exploration. Everything in him sang to claim the warmth, to drink.
Yes. Astoria knew this had to be wrong, but the beat of her heart said ‘yes, more, nownownow’. She was no ingénue, had kissed and been with other men prior to her bondage in her uncle’s home, but this was different. It felt right.
There was a part of her mind that started at that thought - this couldn’t be anything but very, very wrong - but the low growl that rumbled from Draco sparked something inside her and before she could think about anything else, Astoria did what she’d promised herself she never would. She enjoyed him. She shifted in his lap, slid her hands up his chest, fingers raking through his hair and she met him. Astoria opened herself; she tasted, drank from him, her own lips sliding over his.
The burning heat inside of her unfurled and something bright seemed to break free before sizzling through her veins. Magic - burning, untamed magic she realized as a phantom image flashed behind her lids of the white light sluicing through her, glowing chords filling her and spilling from her, meeting silver … meeting Draco, a nearly literal binding of magic, knots twining.
It was only a kiss. With ancient magics, nothing was ‘only’ anything.
The shock of what was happening - what had happened - was almost enough to pull Astoria out of the kiss, but it was in that moment that Draco’s hand slid over her thigh, up the pale skin exposed at the gaping slit of her dress. A tiny sound escaped her mouth and her grip tightened in his hair. It’d been so long since she had be able to be herself, so long she had been hiding behind an agreeable, subservient mask, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, Astoria felt those things that made her, fire and passion, fill her. All of this was wrong; it had been set up. The damage was done, however, and the lure of freeing her own nature was too strong.
Astoria nipped at his lip and pulled at him until their bodies were as close as they could be. It was indecorous, would draw eyes, attention and gossip, but she didn’t care and that felt good. Draco felt good.
His hand tightened on her, fingers pressing into her thigh. He would leave marks. She was so delicate, tiny. But her skin was warm, hot, and as her teeth dragged at his lips, nails bit into his skin, as she curled into him, Draco wondered how he had missed this. She was fire and heat. Much like Ginny, but where the ginger’s fire sought to consume, a pirate of souls, Astoria was the hearth, the simmering, smoldering coals to warm or ignite, a heat that nurtured the flame.
It was an addictive, subtle seduction, not to tempt for a handful of moments in time, but to inspire a hunger that needed satiation over and over and over. She was dangerous. Draco had never thought Astoria as a danger to him, but magic and blood bound them, and somehow, he had learned to crave her. Just her. The uninhibited way she responded to him, he to her, only served to drive home how far gone everything already was.
The tiny sound that slipped from her, breathless frustration and want, nearly undid him. Everything in him, everything that made him what he was, heard and responded to that one little siren call, but for the first time in several minutes, Draco was able to reign himself - because the call was so viscerally strong. He wanted her. He wanted to spill her to his bed, wanted to taste every inch of her, wanted to see how she would arch beneath his touch, how she would cry out for him, wanted to hear how his name would sound on her lips. He knew she would lose herself to him, could feel it in that burning magic, but also in the heat passed back and forth between their bodies, their mouths.
It was why Draco pulled away. They were sitting on the Nott’s grounds, exposed for all the drunken gazes to see, and he would not share that with these people. It was not unheard of, especially on nights such as this - the old ways and magic’s thick in the air as the veil between worlds thinned, as darkness laid claim to the land and drove them towards winter - but Sahmain would not claim them as tribute.
She was panting, breath warm gusts against his neck as she hid her face there, and Draco found Montague once more. The brawny man’s gaze was steady, but there was no taunt to his features now. His dark eyes were thoughtful and intent, and even from the distance Draco could see something slide through the shadows in his gaze. He had approached her at all to goad Draco, but now he wanted her.
“You should have a care with such things,” Pansy said conversationally, though Draco could hear the layers of meaning.
“Did you see … something?” he asked, mercury gaze shifting from Montague to scan about the area. He caught many other sets of eyes turned their way, that same thoughtful want a curious thing in ruddy, drunken features of a few.
“I felt it, darling. Ill-timed,” she replied before taking a long sip from her wine and tossing a smile at someone across the way. Her voice was merry though threaded with seriousness as she continued. “It believe it is a rare thing to feel it so strongly, but we approach midnight and fate is listening.”
Astoria’s thoughts were yet scattered, her skin afire, but her breathing was beginning to even, but the words being passed back and forth held all her attention. Whatever she had seen pass behind her lids had been felt beyond herself and Draco. What that meant, she was unsure.
“It is done then,” Draco said, eyes sliding back to Montague. His mercury gaze was hard, promised death for the trespasses in the shadows of the burly man’s dark eyes. Everything in him was at odds; there was the mission, loyalty to the Dark Lord, survival, but there was magic older than it all, and blood, and now there was Astoria, irrevocably his. No other man’s.
“Yes, darling,” Pansy said, finally shifting dark eyes to him. Her gaze flicked to the woman curled into him, to the shine of equally dark eyes peering at her through a curtain of hair. “He is knowledgeable, but not wise.”
Astoria lifted her head and pushed her hair from her face. He? She was missing something. She knew that the magic of their binding had been ignited, but there was something else going on. Alarm sluiced through her.
Draco pulled his gaze from Montague and looked at the woman in his lap. Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek and brought wide, dark eyes to his. He could see the heat now, could feel it tint the air just from such a simple touch. There was fear and confusion in Astoria’s eyes, however. He understood. He understood all too well now. There was a reason the ancient binding rites hadn’t been used in centuries but for the rare occasion.
It was the binding of hearts, souls, minds, blood. It was powerful and irrevocable.
It overrode all other pledges. Even ones branded into the skin.
Draco shifted his gaze to Pansy and Theo. It was the same for them, he realized, but the ignition of their magic, their binding, had not been public. It had not drawn attention or scrutiny. Its magic had not stirred anyone but themselves. It was secret.
And it could stay that way for them. Both Theodore and Pansy were safe. They were trusted.
Astoria was not. She was meant for death. And he was meant to bring it upon her.
The Dark Lord knew ancient, powerful magic, but he had never experienced that which he’d invoked. He would never bind himself to another.
Mercury eyes found Astoria’s again and he brushed his thumb across her cheek. “It is wisdom’s brother he visits,” he murmured. “Folly.”
Chapter 10