The Barefoot Rebellion
By the time she sees him, she is very cold.
His parents are away for Christmas Eve, thinking he is as well. He is alone in the house. She must Apparate a quarter of a mile inside and walk to the inner boundary of the wards. He must meet her there and open them. This is what she remembers.
Her boots are warm enough, as is her thick woolen hat; it is the rest of her that is freezing under a patched winter cloak a few weaves too thin for Christmas Eve, but too expensive to replace. Her own skin feels like icy marble to her, and her face is wind-stung, her breath so cold it hurts her chest. But when she finally makes it to the large pine marking the ward boundary--iced with five inches of snow and magnificent in the moonlight--he is there.
He does not wear a patched cloak, of course. His is black and thick woolen, and his hat is not hand-knit green homespun but sleek midnight fur. Wisps of blond hair float on the ermine collar of his cloak. She wishes to take a picture of this beautiful youth standing black in the snow under this pine, but she cannot, so she will merely have to remember it.
She stops five feet from him, and he cross the wards and lifts one hand from the depths of his cloak to greet her. They share a clumsy handshake, her with her home-knit mittens and he gloved in black suede and fur. Then he pulls off one glove and caresses her cold, red cheek.
"I'll be all right."
He's the only one who calls her by her full name. It doesn't fit her, like one of her sister's robes that hangs too tight in the chest and too long in the arms. But it's not like anything as plain as Molly could fall from his lips, not from that pale, perfect, aristocratic mouth.
Carefully, he replaces his glove, draws his wand, and opens the wards. A hint of green power shimmers through the winter air, the sheeting line of it like an aurora against the snowy field. Then he takes her hand again, and leads her across, and speaks the words to close it again.
"All set now." He replaces his wand. "See? Only a little way to the Manor."
They trudge through the snow together, leaving twin trails of footprints. Her teeth are starting to chatter by the time they reach the sheltered stone porch of the Manor and she is knocking snow off her boots. He opens the door and waits until she has straightened from the boot-grate to usher her inside with one arm at her back.
The warmth rushes over her like a blessing. She is still for a few moments, waiting for her teeth to stop chattering, waiting for the fierce near-numbness in her nose to fade. Then she dares to look around.
The walls are wood-panelled, carved, polished, shining in the light from dozens of candles set in intricate wrought-iron candelabras. The ceiling is richly painted, a wide Baroque landscape; the windows diamond-paned, the floor marble, the curtains velvet and edged with gold. Two large firs stand in the corners, decorated with thousands of tiny lights--little flickering magical lights hovering around them and roosting amongst the needles. She catches her breath at the beauty, the play of light and rich material. He has shut the door behind her, and is removing his winter things and draping them over a wrought-iron coatrack. Slowly, as if in a dream, she does the same.
He turns and smiles; it is very brief, and soon disappears into his usual expression, but the glint of pride in gray eyes takes longer to fade.
"Wait 'til you see the great hall."
Then he pauses, taking in the dress she wears, an elaborately draped classical wash of snowy white linen around her pale skin, pinned at the shoulders with little gold brooches of lion heads and sashed with a knitted lace scarf exactly the color of her hair. Loosed from the hat, her curling red hair falls in a great bob to her shoulders, gold highlights shining in the candlelight. The fabric drapes loose across her chest, as if it might fall open and be delightfully obscene at any moment, and clings tight to the lush curves of her waist and hips. She is proud of it, even as she fears that it shows too much of her form, or shows it the wrong way, or drapes too low--for she is short and plump, and nothing like the slender-waisted, long-legged girls that a Malfoy should be seeing.
He takes her hand--small and broad-palmed and hangnailed, with rough spots where her knitting needles rub--and kisses it wordlessly with a little bow, the antique gesture matching his slender frame and the old-fashioned charcoal-gray suit and white cravat and black over-robe perfectly. She stammers something and blushes, only it's hard to see it, with her cheeks still pink from the winter night.
"Don't be silly," he says. "I like the fact that you're not all a lady. Girls like Angelique Rosier or Narcissa Warrington are boring." He reaches out almost shyly to touch a curl of her hair. "Besides, you're prettier than any of them."
She giggles. He doesn't know the dress is an enchanted tablecloth. She doesn't even want to think about how embarrassed she would be if he found out.
"I'm still wearing my boots."
He gestures to a carved chair sitting by the door. Hesitantly, as if she is afraid she might be doing it wrong, she sits in the exquisitely carved chair by the door and starts unlacing her winter boots, spattering bits of snow and ice on the marble floor. As she leans over, the front of her dress exposes almost a palm's width of cleavage and soft swell of delicate white flesh, and he must put great effort into not gaping like an idiot. When she tugs her boots off, she is barefoot. She looks up apologetically.
"I didn't have anything that would match the dress."
"But your feet will freeze on the marble." He turns, raises his wand, and murmurs a spell to open the doors leading to the carpeted corridor to the great hall. "Here," he murmurs, taking one hand and raising her to her feet. "Put your arm around my shoulders--"
"You don't have to--"
"No, it'll be all right." With one smooth motion, he slips one arm behind his knees and picks her up with a slight grunt. She lets out a little giggling shriek as she's swept into the air to rest against his chest.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles. He laughs, and it bounces her a little.
"What, you didn't forget your shoes just to give me an excuse to be dashing and romantic?"
She can't help laughing at that, and he laughs as well, because he has a pretty girl bundled in his arms and it gives him a wonderfully self-satisfied, eighteen-year-old glow. She's feeling light-headed too, cradled in his arms like some sort of princess. It was like some lovely game of make-believe, as he strode across the entrance hall, except only one of them knew they were playing.
He sets her back on her feet at the beginning of the thick carpet that stretches down the corridor to the great hall.
"Goodness...I...are you all right?"
"Of course." He offers her his arm, and she takes it, a little clumsily. "You're so cute."
"Cute!" She feigns shock, then pouts. "I thought you said I was pretty."
"You're both." He pats her hand where it rests on his arm. She wiggles her toes a little guiltily in the thick carpet as they walk. "Here." The massive oak doors to the Great Hall open soundlessly before them, gliding by magic over the smooth-worn flagstones to reveal the expanse within, glittering with countless tiny flames.
She stands for a moment basking in the festive beauty before her, and then he promenades her in and leads her to a chair facing his, the only two chairs at a very long table, and dinner has already been set out by two house elves under oath of secrecy.
They will remember it differently, of course. She will remember that she clean forgot to wear indoor slippers of any sort inside her winter boots, and it will be a memory of great embarrassment; he will remember that she forgot shoes on purpose, just to leave herself barefoot and giggling on his carpet, which she will remember as red but he knows is green because he walks on it every day to dinner. Despite the fact that she never owned such a thing, he will remember a delicate tiara, gold against the copper of her hair, resting like the headband of a muse or the halo of an angel. She will never be able to describe how he was wearing his hair, because it wasn't tied back and it wasn't loose, yet it was somehow up, yet strands of it were still brushing his shoulders. She does not know that it had just been grown out unevenly because of a misaimed hex from Aurelian Rosier which they hadn't yet managed to counter. Things like that happen to wizards, but she does not believe they could happen to Lucius Malfoy.
Within a few hours, they discover that the wine was rather stronger than they thought, and since he has drunk three more glasses than she, he is getting giggly. She gets giggly herself seeing him like this, his cravat loose and his cheeks flushed, prone to silly little explosive remarks that bear no resemblance to the flawless, icy sarcasm he preserves in Hogwarts corridors. There is something so delightful about a drunk aristocrat, and she isn't tipsy, not that much anyway, so she can pretend to mother him and make them both laugh until they double over.
"What would happen if your parents came home early?" she asks, after a long, rare moment of silence.
"Oh, I'd be in for it." He shakes his head fiercely. "Very, very in for it. Let me see. My father would...my father would..." He pops to his feet, straightens his cravat, drops his voice an octave, and affects a tone of outrage. "Lucius Malfoy! How dare you! Warrington Senior is going to want to have a word with me about your failing to attend his party, for sure, especially since you owe a favor to Miss Narcissa! And who the devil is this? I don't know her, she must be poor as a church mouse, unless she's a Mudblood, and that's worse...look at that hair, for God's sake, Lucius, she's practically a Weasley!" He stops, crosses his arms, and gives her a feigned death glare. "And are you romancing a woman? I have never in all my days seen such gall!" He stops for breath. "And then that would go into a No Son Of Mine, and that would be the end of that."
She stares, then breaks up giggling.
"What does he expect you to do, romance men?"
He drops back into his seat.
She sputters with laughter.
"Oh, family tradition. Father's bent as they come--he probably kept himself in Mother's bed just long enough to procreate, then went back to his catamites. And since I'm his heir, I'm supposed to be just like him."
She stares harder.
"But you're not."
"No. Which means a No Son Of Mine every few months or so. God, this one would be horrid."
He takes another sip of wine, and then stares at her, the humor draining from his face to leave only a desperate, dazed hunger, and his eyes are far wider and blacker than she remembers them. Then he sets his glass down, stands, and leans across the table. She stares at the flush in his cheeks and the soft pale hair and the secret skin of his throat revealed under his loosened cravat, and lets him take her face in one slender hand and kiss her, passionately, a little clumsily, but somehow gently.
"See," he whispers quietly but determinedly as he breaks the kiss. "Nothing like my father." He lowers his hand to the table, but stays there for a moment, his eyes dropping to where he can see another inch of cleavage. "I'm think I'm in love with you," he murmurs. "You're beautiful, and you're different."
He will remember it differently, of course. Within a year, that dream-intense, fumbling desire will be all but forgotten, because he will have found his master, and when the Dark Mark burns fresh on his arm the giddy feeling of peeking down little Marianna's dress will be unimportant. Within ten years, he will look back on it with bitter and intense embarrassment, because in ten years she will be more than practically a Weasley, and he will have remembered that desire as shameful puppy-love and hapless romanticizing. Within twenty years, he will have calmed down enough to be only mildly embarrassed, perhaps even be able to tell it as a Can You Believe I Did That? at dinner parties with close friends when he's had three more glasses then the rest of them. In his later years, he will never quite be able to understand anymore; he will view the incident as if he were possessed by some unknown force. It simply will not fit with what he has chosen to be, and he will forget that, when he was eighteen, he wanted everything in the world not to fit. For he is Lucius Malfoy, has always been, will always be Lucius Malfoy, a monolith of blond malevolence and too many glasses of wine.
She shivers at the touch of his lips, a stab of heat darts through her body to curl in her belly and slowly seep lower. She gasps at the touch of his tongue, and chills run down her back, and her hands knot around the arms of her chair and she rises up a little until their mouths lock together, warm and wet and eager. She can taste the wine, the tang of fine alcohol on his tongue, and she can feel his eagerness, like he is devouring her, like her whole world has become the intimacy of mouths.
She will not say what she thinks of all this, as she is not that tipsy, and she is too shy to say it all before those gray eyes. Her bare toes curl in the carpet, and the heat spreads between her legs and settles there as he runs his slender hand over her face. For a moment, she is being adored; then he draws back and speaks, but the heat doesn't go away.
She can hardly think. She is, after all, just plain Molly, so plain that her friends joke the Hat got drunk and should've put her in Hufflepuff. Plain Molly, just one of the gals in red, who wants a boyfriend desperately but who doesn't know how, who might fall for any boy who looks at her simply because she's been noticed. Plain Molly, who everybody jokes should date Arthur Weasley just because their hair matches and they're equally poor, and maybe Arthur has looked at her once or twice, but plain Molly is greedy and wants a beautiful man and a charming man and plain Arthur is neither, just a gawky boy with a broomstick and a mop of red hair, just like all the others. Plain Molly, who is still living with her parents after Hogwarts, cooking with the corn from their little patch of land, spinning homespun and knitting on smooth-worn wooden needles until her hands tingle with lanolin. She imagines the young man leaning over her standing in her kitchen, watching her sister grind coffee, watching her fingers dancing back and forth casting loops in her yarn, knit, purl, knit, purl. Will she size a sleeve to his slender arm? Moss stitch in stonewashed gray, perhaps? She has to stifle a giggle at the thought. It is far easier, after all, to charm a tablecloth into a gown and pretend to be a lady--for she is pretending, and she knows it well--than to put Lucius Malfoy in homespun, and when she thinks of that she first understands how impossible the two of them would be.
Of all the boys to look at her, never mind take her home, never mind lean across the table and kiss her and tell her she's special--even if he is drunk--she would never have expected Lucius Malfoy. For he was oh so Slytherin, just like his family, and oh so charming and daring and popular. And so very beautiful. After all, plain Molly, like any girl, was always greedy for a beautiful man, a man who would treat her like a princess and carry her up to the carpet. And here he is, the most beautiful man of all, looking at plain Molly with those rare gray eyes, and her stomach is doing flip-flops even as an embarrassing dampness grows between her legs. She has never been aroused like this before, not by deliberate touch, not by adoration, not from a man with a hunger in his eyes that could promise a thousand kisses, and all of a sudden she wants them both to be naked and pillowed in down and writhing.
She will remember it differently, of course. Within a year, she'll be laughing at herself for thinking that Arthur Weasley is anything but right, because she'll be curled in his lap wearing only a pair of Muggle blue jeans and laughing and laughing and tracing the patterns of freckles and red hair on his chest. Within ten years, she'll be as embarrassed as Lucius, because she will have a family, because she will have realized that she is infinitely happy presiding over the hearth and her darling Arthur, and clever little Bill and fiery little Charlie, and it will feel somehow like a betrayal that she shuffled through the snow that Christmas Eve. Within twenty years, she'll be able to laugh at it, and laugh hard, and tell the story to old friends with the sly grin that means I bagged a pretty little Malfoy when I was young and spry, and Arthur will laugh at poor straight Lucius. In her later years, she will understand herself, because she will remember that all she wanted was a beautiful man. It all might even, one day, give her deep sympathy when her only daughter clings to her and sobs her eyes out about the beautiful man who was not a tipsy little Malfoy but a very dangerous little Riddle. She will think that when she quivered beneath Lucius Malfoy's touch she was Marianna Carroll, but now she is Molly Weasley, and she is happy, and still knits.
When he asks her to come up to his room, she says yes and follows him, because she is consumed by burning curiosity. He looks giddily triumphant as he leads her through a maze of corridors, a wide marble staircase, tapestried gallery, arching walkway over the entrance hall. He looks even more triumphant as he opens the oak door to his chamber and motions her inside and peeks down her dress as she goes. She notices, but does not complain; it goes to her head, because it makes her beautiful.
She pauses, looks about at the mahogany furniture, and wiggles her toes in a new carpet, this one an oriental scene of little stylized hunters and the strange beasts they pursue. He closes the door and comes up behind her and puts on hand on her shoulder, his finger brushing the mane of the little golden lion pinning her dress up. After a long while, he asks, very quietly, "Are we going to do it?"
His breath tickles her ear.
She feels another rush of heat, and this one dives straight between her legs.
"Yes," she whispers.
"Do you know the charms?"
She pulls out her wand, points it at her own belly, and murmurs the words of the charm that will keep her safe from disease and children. He does the same to himself, fumbles a word, and casts it again, but she knows it will be all right if his doesn't take because she's sure hers has, and one is enough. As he spells, she goes over and sits on his bed, on the rich brocade cover, and laughs a little, and then he drops down beside her and they both bounce and giggle madly.
Then he reaches to her shoulders and slips out the little brooches and sets them on the table. The upper flaps of her dress fall off and settle around her waist, held up by the scarf knotted there, revealing the charmed length of fabric that wraps snugly around her breasts, holding them comfortably in place. Such are the undergarments of Purebloods; he smiles. She undoes the scarf around her waist and her dress sags a little more and he stares at her pale skin. She loops her knitting over his head and pulls him in for kisses and they roll madly on the bed. Soon they forget who they're supposed to be, forget that this is illicit and risky and quite inane, and his jacket is tossed on the floor and her tablecloth is tangled around her legs and they're flushed and laughing and mad with desire. He piles the lace of his cravat on top of her hair and reaches for his wand and fumbles with the spell to release the cloth around her breasts, and she laughs at him, and finally the spell and cloth drop away and he stares.
They attack each other madly again and his hands cup her breasts, running over those soft and warm and very full swells of flesh that fill him with mad, primal desire--he is, after all, eighteen, and very male, and rather straight, and he is touching an honest-to-goodness pair of breasts for the first time in his life and he feels like the king of the mountain. And she sighs under his touch and kisses him and tugs at his sleeves and somehow enough of his clothing comes off to leave him in old-fashioned trousers--strained trousers, between his legs--and nothing else.
Then he tugs at the rest of what had been a dress and starts unraveling the elaborate drape of the fabric until it falls away from her, leaving her naked in the middle of a swath of white linen. Such are the undergarments of Purebloods; he smiles. Instinctively she closes her legs, hiding the aching heat between her thighs, but he is still gaping.
"Oh, you do like girls," she says with a giggle.
She sprawls on his bed, and realizes that the only difference between the dumpy little girl she's been all her life and the goddess she is now is the way he is looking at her, the way wide gray eyes drink in every last curve of her body like it is ambrosia. So she decides to believe in what he believes, until she becomes the most beautiful woman on earth, with the intoxicating power of divinity in the curve of her hip and the softness of her thigh, the untouched white of breasts, pink of nipples, hair standing bright like copper wire against the pale-pale skin of her belly.
He crawls over her and kisses her breasts and runs his fingers over her nipples and she gasps and closes her eyes and forgets everything because she, madly, trusts him. Hands trace down her sides, almost tickling, long slender fingers becoming cooler and cooler against her warm skin the lower he goes. One palm over the bone at the front of her pelvis now, curls against his skin, fingers pressing down into the slick chaos of folds, and he wiggles them a bit as if in puzzlement and a long shiver runs through her.
"Yes, Marianna," he whispers. "Yes, I do."
Then he tucks his hair behind his ears and lowers his head and tentatively brushes his tongue across the desperate, swollen folds, and all her breath leaves her in one gasp. She throws her head back and clutches at the sheets as he buries his face between her legs, licking and nuzzling everything that looked like it might be even vaguely interesting--he has no idea how to do this, but he has this marvelous way of wiggling his tongue, and she is already so desperately hot and wet and the tiny bud of her clit is firm and tight and makes her quiver and gasp every time he touches it. When he slips a finger inside of her, past the slick, swollen lips, past the ring of membranes within, into deep, clutching darkness, she moans. He swallows the slippery salty stuff in his mouth and imagines the muscles that cling to his finger clinging to his cock, and it twitches, painfully aroused within the confines of his trousers.
It is a faint, throaty murmur, and her whole sex seems to twitch against him. He slides another finger in, and continues to madly lick, focusing his attention now on her clit, and she's brought her knees up without thinking and is trying to keep herself from grinding her hips against his face.
She is half-mad with desire, lost in sensation, blinded with the pulse of pleasure that seems to be moving her legs and hips without her command. He cannot see her face, and wishes he could, because he wonders what she looks like, sex-mad like this; so he merely wiggles, scissors, listens to her gasp and moan, and manages a third finger. He is stretching something, he is not sure what, and she gives a little gasp that might be pain.
"Does it hurt?" he murmurs, the breath of his speech tingling against her overexcited skin.
"It has to...I want you inside me, Lucius. I want you inside me..."
His cock threatens to pop out of his trousers at that, and he wiggles his fingers, straining deeper, and she squirms and gasps. He reaches his other hand down to undo his fly, buttons slipping through fine fabric, and his cock jumps out and slaps his stomach and he half giggles because it's so eager and half moans because it's finally free. He squirms clumsily out of his trousers, tosses them onto the floor, slides his fingers out of her. They run soaking wet up her thigh; she shivers at the touch of her own juices.
He finally gets to look at her face, at the flush on her cheeks and the way her hair sticks in curls to her forehead, and the wrinkled flesh around her hard nipples, and she tosses her hips and says something so lost in her breath and his blood pounding in his ears that he cannot understand, and decides she must be begging him. She is merely murmuring in incoherent wonder, throbbing with blind pleasure, awed by the intensity of his gaze and the shininess of his mouth, wet and glistening in the candlelight. Her legs are spread, baring that desperate reddened flesh, so he does the only thing he can do and shifts about and takes his cock in one hand--even that touch jolting him with pleasure--and slips it just a little inside, and the swollen folds clutch at it desperately.
Then he shifts again and plunges in as deep as he can, and maybe something has to rip a little to let him in, but for long one moment he just lets himself drown in that heat, clinging, wet, perfect. She lets out a scream and her hips jerk and her eyes open just a little, the green just a ring around drowning black.
"I'm going to bleed..."
"I think you already have..." He shifts, reaches his still wet hand out to draw across one breast, play with a hard pink nipple, and she gasps.
"Just move...it'll be okay..."
But first he lies down on top of her, their bodies plastering together, and their mouths meet in a deep kiss. She tastes herself on his tongue now, mixed with wine, and she wants to be embarrassed but such things are impossible with that long, lean body on top of her, with that terrifying full sensation, the stretching of her membranes, the aching of her clit.
Then, almost without him willing, his hips start moving, and she screams into his mouth, and he swallows it with a low groan of his own as her body grinds back against him, spasming around him in rhythm with his thrusts.
It can hardly last long, he eighteen and madly horny, she already driven close to ecstasy by his tongue. They grind hips madly in instinctive rhythm and cry into each others' mouths, and he breaks the kiss before he bites her tongue in abandon. Their toes twist into the sheets, and they come, madly, her screaming over his shoulder, and he collapses on top of her murmuring her name and his cock gradually slides out of her as it droops, spent and content.
They will remember it differently, of course.