"Full Story," Rita/Lucius, NC-17 Title: Full Story Author:kethlenda Characters/Pairing: Rita/Lucius Summary: Every man, and every woman, has a story. Rating: NC-17 Warning(s): D/s, infidelity Originally Written: 3/06 Notes: This was a pinch hit for lilith_morgana at Springsmut.
Every man, and every woman, has a story.
Professors of magic will tell you that knowing the name of something gives you power over that thing. Rita knows better. Knowing someone's story gives you absolute power.
That's why Rita is glad no one remembers one story in particular. It involves a quiet, bespectacled girl--a wallflower, Ravenclaw house, Muggle-born. A girl who learned that if you're quiet and unassuming, if you just sit very still with your eyes glued to your book, people will say the most fascinating things right in front of you. They forget you're there. Even then, she knew better than to shout every juicy little tidbit from the rooftops like that silly Bertha Jorkins. Rita knew words for the gems they were, to be carefully hoarded and saved for the perfect moment. The moment when they would transmute into power.
Lucius Malfoy was younger than she, though you'd never guess it. He walked like he owned the school, and maybe he did. He never had much use for shy Muggle-born girls with glasses and unruly curls, not Lucius Malfoy. For him, it was always that stuck-up bitch Narcissa Black, but Rita promised herself that one day she'd be as pretty as Cissy and as famous as Lucius himself. Her day would come, and she'd make Lucius beg on his pretty little knees.
She smiles as she dabs scarlet onto her full lips. How very fortunate, that this assignment happened to fall onto her desk now, rather than six months ago: lean times, then, too much firewhiskey and too little food, too flabby and too thin at once. She's fit again now, in what she likes to think of as her second prime, and her red silk suit fits her like a very expensive glove.
Lucius won't know what hit him.
"How did you get in here?"
"That's my little secret." Rita smiles. She notes that he doesn't shine quite like he used to. He's only been in Azkaban a few weeks, and he's already taking on a sort of greyness, as though leaching it from the damp stone walls. Even his hair, once spun gold, hangs lifeless and dull.
A shame. She'd have preferred the old Lucius. Still, there's power in his diminished state--power for her. "It's your lucky day, Mr. Malfoy. I'm here to interview you. Don't you want a chance to tell your side of the story? Set the record straight?"
"You're that Skeeter woman, aren't you?" He scowls, but pulls out a chair for her at the plain wooden table they've provided him, and sits down in the other. A bit of his old arrogance returns--he leans back languidly in the chair, making a throne of it. "Very well," he says, waving his hand at her. She leans in close, letting her full breast brush against his arm. He jerks, startling at her touch, and she flicks her eyes up to his and sees something there she cannot read. Lust? Or only surprise? One must become rather starved for contact in this place.
"Tell me all about it," she says, giving him her best soulful gaze.
"I'm not a Death Eater," he says, his voice so glib she knows he's lying. "I went to the Ministry that night on business, and heard a commotion, and went to the rescue."
The quill flies over the page. She glances at its flowing script: Lucius Malfoy, his elegant beauty somewhat dimmed by imprisonment, insists he is innocent. Running his hand through his silken blond hair, he makes the dubious claim that he in fact fought on the side of Headmaster Dumbledore in the Department of Mysteries battle.
"Dubious?" He snatches at the quill, but it dances out of his reach. "I'm not a Death Eater. I was never a Death Eater. Lies!"
Malfoy insists that the rumours of Death Eater involvement are unfounded, and repeats the claim, believed by few, that he was also guiltless in the atrocities of the First War. Doubtless he will continue to protest that he was under the influence of the Imperius Curse, despite damning evidence to the contrary.
"You can't print that rubbish. You'll humiliate my wife and son. Burn that parchment now, I say."
"Says a criminal in a cage." She smirks, knowing he has no leverage to wield, no influence to wave in her face. "Can't talk the Ministry into shutting me up now, can you?"
Lucius' hands shape fists in the air, impotent.
"However, I'm a reasonable woman," she says. "I'd consider destroying that article if you were willing to make it worth my while."
"Money?" His eyes light up; this is clearly more comfortable ground for him. "I could have Narcissa get some gold from our vault…yes…"
She shakes her head. "Not money, Lucius. I want you on your knees."
"What?"
"You heard me. On your knees."
His eyes are wide as saucers, but sweet Merlin, he does it, moving slowly from the chair as if it hurts, and perhaps it does. He sinks to his knees, and she sees wetness from the floor seeping through to darken his shabby grey robes.
She rises, pacing the room, circling him like a predator. What now? She comes to rest against the chill wall of the cell. She feels the damp ruining her silk skirt, but she can always buy another one. Some things are worth it.
"Come here, Lucius."
He moves as if to rise.
"No. Crawl."
He obliges, muttering something under his breath. "Should I kiss your feet, too?" he spits as he reaches her.
"Not my feet," she says, lifting her skirt. He moans low in his throat as he watches her. She knows what he is seeing: garter belt worn over nothing at all; red silk and golden fleece. "Pleasure me."
He rises, and braces one hand on the wall. His tongue on her clit--Merlin, how long have I waited for this?--he's not as good as he is in her dreams, but how can a mortal man live up to dreams?
She sees him slip one hand down to rub at his cock through his robes, and she licks her lips as she watches his erection tenting the fabric, but this just won't do, not now. "No," she says. "That hand should be at my service. If you're good, maybe I'll let you come later."
He groans as he lets go of his cock, and thrusts his fingers inside her instead, hard. She moves against them, moves to the rhythm of his fingers and his tongue, and she has just enough time to think oh God it's going to be over too soon before her orgasm breaks over her and she shudders against the wall, convulses around Lucius' fingers.
He's watching her, face contorted in lust, and he murmurs, "Please…"
"Please what?" Rita smiles.
"Please…let me…"
"Let you what? Let you have the article? Or let you come?" It's a false dichotomy and Rita knows it; it's not as if he can't just wank himself senseless as soon as he leaves, but the very thought of him waiting with bated breath for her to leave so he can wank? It's got her wet all over again.
"Come," he says.
Rita licks her lips--she'd never imagined he'd say this, not with so much on the line. But then, how much really is on the line? His reputation? Already in the mud. What more could she really do to it? Meanwhile, he languishes here in prison, perhaps visited decorously once a week by his wife, starved for affection…
She stoops to conquer, as it were, sinking to her knees and taking his cock in her hand. He moans as she strokes him up and down. His eyes are closed--is he picturing that bitch in her place? Or only imagining away this dank cell?
"Look at me," she commands. He obeys; the silver of his eyes is dulled to grey by defeat, mirroring the unrelenting walls of Azkaban. Rita wants to smile at the sight of him brought low at last.
Except she liked him better proud and defiant, gold and silver not driftwood and stone, and as he spills over her skillful fingers, she wishes it could have been another way.
Reports that Malfoy has been visited in his cell by an attractive blonde, not his wife, remain unconfirmed, the quill scratches on, forgotten by both of them.
***
Later, she takes to her jewel-bright wings and crosses the pounding icy sea, knowing she will destroy the parchment anyway. It will give her no satisfaction to see Lucius broken further.
It's the oldest story in the book: plain girl grows up to be a beauty and wins the handsome prince. Metamorphosis: ash-girl into princess, nondescript larva into gleaming, glittering insect.
They don't tell you it only works when the prince is bowed low by circumstances and the princess is the only bright blaze of heat and life in sight. They don't tell you how victory can taste like ashes.