Title: Sibling Rivalry
Author: inamac
Prompt: incest, maieusophilia (arousal from heavily pregnant women) and oclophilia (arousal by crowds)
Rating: NC17
Content/Warnings: See Prompt.
Word Count: 1020
Summary/Description: Death Eaters being Death Eaters (just another sex magic ritual. Yawn.)
Author's Notes: I'm afraid that I looked at the prompts and couldn't decide on one so pretty much used them all.

Sibling Rivalry

The chandelier was creaking slightly on its chains, swinging in the draft of the storm raging outside the tall, leaded glass windows. The room had originally been a chapel, and it was still a place of worship, though the altar had been replaced by a fur-draped bed, and the patterns on the floor of the chancel were scribed in salt and blood rather than brass and stone. The candlelight shifted over the scene below, on the two naked, gravid, bodies on the bed, on the hooded figures surrounding it, and on the pale wand of the wizard commanding the gathering.

Commanding me.

I had read the grimoires, and knew that this voyeurism was not necessary, at least, not for the stated purpose of the enchantment, but Lord Voldemort took a perverse pleasure in having spectators at his 'entertainments'. He was aroused as much by the reactions of the onlookers as by the actions of the two women on the bed.

Narcissa Black – no, Malfoy, (how could I have forgotten a wedding to which the cream of wizarding society had been invited? Probably because I had not been.) – lay supine on the dishevelled furs. The swinging light gave her flesh a warm amber glow that belied her frigid pose. Her face was turned away from me but I knew what her expression would be; eyes shut not in passion but in withdrawal, pale lips closed over clenched teeth, the long sinews of her neck corded taut with the effort of not swallowing her bile.

I glanced across the chamber to her husband. Lucius' expression mirrored hers, save that his eyes were open. He had, perforce, to watch. The grey eyes were blank though, unfocussed. If His Lordship ever let slip his control of the Imperious Curse there would be murder done, and nothing so neat and quick as a Death Curse.

The other Death Eaters showed much more excitement. The Lestrange brothers were both flushed with arousal. For them, as for the Carrows, Voldemort had needed no coercive cantrips to force them into public displays of more than sibling affection. Rabastan's hands were folded into his robe, though the fabric was not heavy enough to disguise their rhythmic movement over his cock. Rodolphus made no attempt to conceal his own arousal, drawing back his robe and frotting openly against his brother's thigh as he watched his fiancé crawl forward between her sister's opened legs and thrust her face between the pale thighs to lave at her blonde-fringed opening.

Narcissa shifted. It was only a fractional movement, but Voldemort missed nothing.

"Bellatrix, dear," he murmured, "it seems that your sister does not appreciate your services. You disappoint us both. Do try harder."

Bella laughed; and used her teeth. Narcissa bucked, and tears ran beneath her closed eyelids. Lucius made an involuntary movement towards the bed, curtailed by a flick of his master's wand.

"The baby..." he said.

"You can get another, Lucius. Would you deny me my pleasures? Or Bellatrix hers?"

The Imperius curse overrides the will of the subject to resist, but not his desire to do so. Lucius bowed, defeat in his action but not his eyes, and withdrew.

Voldemort returned his attention to the bed. Bella was on her hands and knees now, leaning over her sister, her dishevelled black hair had been released from its silver clasps by her earlier activity and now fell in black, spunk-dripping tangles, to mask both their faces. Her fingers had a bruising grip on Narcissa's upper arms as she lowered herself, belly to distended belly, womb to womb, child to – what, I wondered.

Voldemort had thrice performed the rites to beget a fey-child, a pure-blood witch or wizard with access to the old, wild magic of the time of Merlin. Bellatrix' belly had waxed and waned with the moon. There had been no child from the first two rituals, and I doubted that there would be one from this. Whether the magic had failed, or Voldemort had tired of the experiment or (as I suspected, watching his avid gaze on the bed's occupants) whether his sole interest was in watching this perverted display of incestuous lust between two heavily pregnant witches, mattered little.

Bella lifted one hand to dip her fingers into the oil that filled the piscina on the wall of the chapel beside the bed. She smoothed some onto Narcissa’s belly, palm jumping as the child within shifted under the ministrations. Then she grasped her sister’s freed hand and coated her fingers with the oil before rolling to one side and guiding her sister's reluctant hand between her legs.

"Fuck me, Cissy," she whispered. "Fuck me hard."

As Narcissa's oiled fingers entered her she threw back her head, and the candlelight revealed an expression of fulfilment and ecstasy that I had seen only in the religious art of the Renaissance. Her eyes were open, her throat working with more than the normal responses of sexual orgasm. The knowledge that it was her sister who did this, and did it under protest, was, for her, the most potent of aphrodisiacs.

She was not alone. Her fiancé had abandoned caution and now had his cock buried in his brother's arse. Rabastan, unlike Narcissa, seemed to welcome the intrusion, gripping the edge of the choir stall and using the purchase to ride each thrust. A whisper, More and Harder sounded through the chapel, amplified by the acoustics. It was difficult to identify the source of the sound, but we all knew that serpentine hiss. It was Voldemort. A spell or a command. Or, perhaps, a result of his own excitement. I felt the Mark writhe on my arm, and my cock pulse in response. The whole place was filled with the magic of sex. One could not help but respond, no matter how distasteful or perverted the source.

Bellatrix cried out and pulled away from her sister, fell, writhing, to the marble floor, scattering the ritual patterns as she did so. Voldemort moved forward, eager to see the culmination of his ritual. The birth of the child that would carry his soul to rule all wizardkind.

But there was nothing. Nothing but a mad witch and a scatter of bloody salt.

The ritual had failed.