Pansy Parkinson was bored.
And that in itself, did not bode well. Not for her, not for her staff, and certainly not for Lucius Malfoy.
“I’m bor-ed.” Pansy pouted as she reclined against the mountain of fur lined pillows arranged just so before the fire.
“Merlin woman! What more do you want from me?” Lucius sounded tired.
“A present. Something to amuse me.” Pansy widened her eyes expertly and chewed ever so slightly on her bottom lip as she twirled a finger lazily into a dark velvety curl.
“Only you, Pansy, my dear. Only you could come to Paris in the middle of a war and still find nothing to amuse you.”
“Lucius, love,” she half sneered, leaning forward so that he could catch a glimpse of her heavy breasts. “I warned you when you slipped your hand up my skirt that first time… I told you that I was demanding.”
“That was when I was sure that no woman alive could be as much of a harpy as Narcissa.” he scowled, the expression marking his age.
“You shouldn’t do that. I can see those lines around your eyes.”
Lucius flashed her a dirty look, but schooled his expression nonetheless. “You’d better mind that tongue, Miss.”
“Poor darling. Left one nagging bitch for another.” She laughed, but the sound was practiced.
“I haven’t left her, Pansy.” He was serious.
“Do shove off, Lucius. After all, I’m still shagging your son.” She retorted sweetly.
“I’ll shove in, you little slut.” He laughed, a truly terrifying sound.
But Pansy had no fear of the elder Malfoy, she had no fear of anyone at all. She leaned back and pulled her peignoir up about her shapely thighs, spreading them in vulgar invitation.
Pansy loved the feeling of power it gave her to feel a man working against her, his sweat dripping down onto her, her body convulsing around a thick, hard cock, making him come for her. They say an orgasm is as close to death as a man can come without actually dying. That was quite an advantage to have over someone as powerful as Lucius Malfoy.
As Lucius pounded into her, she tangled her hands into his hair and wondered briefly, if she should seduce Narcissa, just so she could have a matching set. All that blonde and pale flesh surrounding her, giving into her, worshipping her like some dark goddess…
It was that thought that made her body contract around him and milk him like a succubus, her body shuddering and bucking, begging for more.
Lucius, having found his pleasure, pulled himself from her without preamble. “I have to go. I trust you can handle the rest on your own?”
Pansy was still shaking with her want and ran her hand up the inside of his thigh as he tried to slip into his trousers.
“Really darling. I think I can button my own trousers.”
“I thought you were better at taking them off?” she quipped.
“I’m late. The Dark Lord is expecting me.” Lucius slammed out of the room without any of the expected pleasantries that most men afforded their mistresses.
But then again, Lucius had never been like most men. It had been Draco’s fifteenth birthday party the first time that Lucius had first touched her. It had been so exciting then, so forbidden. Just thinking of that tension with those first touches, it was enough as she slipped her fingers inside of herself.
She’d been standing alone out on the terrace, comfortable in her role as Draco’s fiancée, confident enough to let him have his fun with all of those swooning girls, desperate for even a taste of him.
“Why are you out here by yourself, little Miss Parkinson?” But there’d been a predatory gleam in his eyes, one that she saw and recognized, but couldn’t resist.
“Oh you know. Draco is getting shagged…a birthday present apparently.” She couldn’t believe that she’d spoken like that to him, power just seemed to radiate from his presence.
He smiled down at her wolfishly and lowered himself gracefully into one of the wrought iron chairs. “That doesn’t bother you?” Lucius asked, his stare intense, calculating.
“No. Should it? That is how things are done, is it not?” Pansy managed a saucy smile.
“You will make a wonderful Malfoy. Come, sit.” He patted his lap. “I want to welcome my new daughter to the family.
Pansy had walked over to him and perched primly on his leg. The heat of him had burned her through her knickers, making her damp with longings that she couldn’t name. All of Slytherin had thought her a whore, but in truth, she’d saved herself for her marriage to Draco.
His long fingers had slid up her thigh, treading where no touch had before.
“If you do this, Mr. Malfoy…”she’d begun innocently.
“Ah. There is that Slytherin instinct. What are you going to blackmail out of me, little serpent?” Lucius had been genuinely amused, intrigued.
“Power. I want you to take me with you when the Dark Lord rises.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you know of power, little girl?”
“I know that you have it, and I want it.” She said as she took his hand and slid it farther up her skirt.
“Would you like to meet Him?”
All Pansy could do was nod.
Suddenly, Lucius changed. His body had become rigid and his silver eyes were now blacker than any shadow. Pansy squirmed uncomfortably against his body as it became cold, like death.
“You are young to be making such bargains.”
The voice that emanated in shadowy echoes did not belong to Lucius.
“I know my own mind.”
“So you do. Will you be using that luscious body to further My work?”
“I will, Lord.” Pansy agreed.
Pansy sighed, unable to orgasm. It had been so long ago. Memories seemed to plague her now, more than ever. But she would never waste a moment on regret. Pansy wasn’t that kind of girl. She couldn’t be, not after ten years of playing mistress to a man like Lucius Malfoy.
The mark on her arm was occasionally uncomfortable, but the only time that it had ever truly burned had been when Voldemort himself had fucked her. It had been one of the first things he’d done after regaining his body. Pansy had even borne him an heir, though all the Malfoys, including Lucius, believed the boy to be Draco’s.
Pansy missed her son. She loved him, but it was better that he never see what his mother was. The power was strong in him already, a force greater than all of them. She had such designs for his life, such plans for his greatness.
Because Voldemort would lose this war. She’d seen it.
And when he did, after the commotion had settled, after they all believed him to be dead, that’s when they would strike. The wizarding world would be vulnerable, for in their ignorance, they thought the Dark Lord to be the worst thing that could go “bump”
in the night.
When her son rose to power, all of the world would bleed.