The Fall of the House of Malfoy

Part One: The Messenger

I take my orders from a woman, my mistress who waits for news; oh she's a woman all right, a woman with a man's heart. –Herald, Aeschylus, Agamemnon

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the parlor windows, hand gripping the missive in her left hand, her elegant features twisted in a mask of perfect rage. The day was perfectly beautiful outside, but she had no interest whatsoever at admiring the perfectly manicured lawn of her home.

How dare he! To come back here, after all he's done, and to bring that whore with him.

“Mistress is angry?”

The frightened squeak of the house-elf brought her back to herself, and she smoothed her features into a semblance of a smile before turning. “Thank you, Bitsy. That will be all.” Her voice was calm, collected, but her hand trembled as it crushed the heavy vellum paper.

“I will prepare Master's rooms,” the house-elf said, then nervously dashed out of the parlor before it could be reprimanded. And it would be—mention of the Master had brought dire punishment in these last few years. Perhaps the house-elves would be the only ones happy, then, that he was returning.

“So it's true.” The voice, dark and resonant, rang out in the morning stillness of the parlor.

“Apparently so. He returns, my husband, and brings with him a concubine as his prize of war.” Narcissa laughed bitterly, turning to face the man who stood in the doorway.

Severus Snape stood there, dark hair hanging in his sallow face, lips twisted into a familiar sneer. He was not handsome, not like her perfect, fair husband. But he was powerful, and he was a vehicle to the revenge she craved, and she found his touch was chilling and sublime for the very reason she despised it.

His unattractiveness was one of the reasons she had taken him to her bed, as he was an affront to all the adherence of perfection that was so intricately involved in the Malfoy name.

“Narcissa, he would have been severely punished if he avoided the Dark Lord's generosity,” Snape drawled, coming to stand beside her at the window. “She is no doubt being sent to serve in the kitchens.”

“Don't insult my intelligence,” Narcissa purred at him, her eyes flashing dangerously. “She is meant as his mistress, and he has taken her as such. Some Mudblood whore, in my own home, at that.”

Severus crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her, night-dark eyes deep and unmoving like pools of tar. “You have hardly been a chaste wife,” he said with a sardonic sneer, and in that moment, he reminded her too much of her husband. “In your own home, at that,” he mocked, giving her a stiff bow.

Stepping towards him, she placed a gloved hand on his chest. “You dare too much, sir. Remember who still rules here, and by whose favor you have climbed so high.” Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his lips with her rosebud mouth, pulling away from him after the briefest of moments.

“I forget nothing, Narcissa,” he said softly. She tasted of sugar and mint, and yet there was something darker and more fetid that he had never been able to place, just beneath the honeyed sweetness of her kiss.

She turned when she reached the door, the light filtering in and shining around her like a halo. “Neither do I, Severus.” Narcissa smiled beatifically at him, like an angel bestowing a blessing. Only she was no angel, and he was not worthy of receiving any such honor.

She stepped out of the room on her silent, slippered feet, and closed the door behind her. Severus stared out at the blue, bright sky, his eyes blinded for a moment by the sun, which he preferred to looking around the room and being blinded by her wealth.


Part Two: The King Returns

“It becomes the fortunate man to yield a victory.” Clytemnestra Aeschylus' Agamemnon.

Malfoy Manor was spread before him, in all the splendor he remembered. Stately stone façade, lazily curling ivy, sun sparkling off the immaculately clean windows. Lucius Malfoy smiled in pure delight to behold it through the dirty, mud-streaked windows of his black carriage.

His home. He had returned to it, victorious and triumphant.

The War had been achingly long, more so than anyone would have imagined. The final battle had taken place at Hogwarts, where the resistance had gathered in a last-ditch effort to defeat the powers of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

He remembered the sight of the Boy Who Lived, lying dead on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, the flags still blowing merrily in the breeze. Voldemort had stood above him, laughing, the sound ringing out loud and joyous in the crisp October day. Lucius remembered Ginny Potter's screams as they'd tossed her child off the roof as they'd dragged her away. She'd gone with Voldemort, the childhood companion of his other self, Tom Riddle. What fate awaited her, Lucius did not know, nor did her particularly care.

Despite the glaring sunlight in a cloudless sky, the Dark Mark had never shone brighter than it did on that day, when it glowed fiercely over the captured fortress of Hogwarts.

With the Dark Lord victorious, the Wizarding world would soon be cleansed of the imperfections that tainted it, and all would be as perfect and beautiful as the immaculate gardens surrounding his home. The weeds had been destroyed, and God willing, would never grow back. He had taken great pleasure in cutting those weeds down, and one of the last remaining sat across from him, bundled up and silent, on the seat.

“Wake up,” Lucius said, rapping her with his wand, enjoying the way she startled and winced at the pain.

Hermione Granger, ex-Auror, former brilliant witch and childhood friend of the Boy Who Lived and his sidekick, Ronald Weasley. She had tried to convince them all to listen to reason, not to allow Wormtail into the castle with his protestations of guilt and pledges of false loyalty to Harry in deference to the life-debt he owed him.

Her cries had fallen on deaf ears, until there was no one left to hear them, let alone listen.

“Where—where are we?” Hermione looked around, appearing disoriented.

“Malfoy Manor, my dear. Just look,” he said, waving out of the carriage window, a sneer twisting his lips. “Your future home. For as long as I can be bothered to let you live.”

Hermione gazed at him a frightening intensity, and then obeyed him, turning wild eyes out of the window. She turned back and smiled, twisting her hair around her bone-thin fingers and laughing. “You don't see it, do you?” She cocked her head at him questioningly.

He gave her a mildly-disgusted look, sickened by her obvious madness. Neither that nor her impure blood would keep him from fucking her, as he would have mastery over this troublesome Mudblood bitch. He'd waited too long for it. She may not survive the experience, and in fact…he was hoping she would not.

“The floors run with blood…” she said in a sing-song voice, and he rapped her again with his wand.

“Do stop it, my dear. You sound like Bellatrix.” He smiled as he spoke Bellatrix's name, watching the way she flinched, remembering the screams of her beloved Ron and his murderer's sweet, girlish laughter as she eviscerated him.

Her torment was evident, thick in the air between them.

Like pulling wings off a butterfly, girl. Ah, what joys I have planned for you . Lucius gave her a condescending smile as the carriage slowed to stop.

“My little prize.” He chucked her under the chin in calculated, demeaning gesture. “You are not beautiful, and your mind is no longer sharp with anything but madness, but I will break what is left of you and thoroughly enjoy doing so.”

When the carriage pulled up, he gave Hermione a stern look. “You will stay here until I call for you,” he said, reaching out towards her. She flinched at his touch, and he took his time with it, tweaking her nipples and pinching her ruthlessly.

“What a joy it shall be to hear you scream,” Lucius said with a smile before he laughed. He quit the carriage, inhaling the sweet scent of freshly cut grass, and walked up the stone steps.

The front door opened as he approached, and there stood his wife, swathed in silk and appearing haughtily beautiful surrounded by the perfection of the Manor. “Narcissa.”

She looked much the same as he remembered, elegant, blonde and beautiful. Her body was still trim, her hair dressed in an elegant chignon. Diamonds graced her ears and her throat, and one brilliant gem dangled from a finely-worked piece at her wrist.

He did not remember that particular bauble, and he had always bought her diamonds. Lucius thought the cold perfection of a diamond admirably suited to her.

“Lucius. So you've returned from the war.” Her eyes met his, and for a moment hers were as hard as the diamonds he had been admiring. Her lashes lowered and brushed her cheeks, and when she met his gaze again, there was a soft welcome in her eyes, dispelling the flare of temper.

He blinked in the bright light of the sun, feeling suddenly dazzled by the intense glare reflecting off the white marble steps. There was a bright red rug that spilled out from the house onto the porch, and it caught his gaze. “I do not remember this tapestry,” he said, inanely.

She raised one brow, the gesture subtly mocking him, as it was one he was fond of it. “I was not aware you remembered each detail of our home so precisely,” she said, and there it was again, a hint of steel behind her words. “This is fitting, is it not, for a conqueror?” Narcissa waved a negligent hand to indicate the crimson fabric.

Sunlight hit her diamond as she moved her hand, and it sparkled merrily. The effect was mesmerizing. He felt a sudden flare of disquiet, Hermione's words echoing in his mind. The floors will run with blood…

Narcissa's laughter rang out, unfettered and easy. “It has been here for years, husband. I only tease you. Come, we've prepared a bath and a feast for you—and for the one whom you have brought back, I shall let her enter this house. I suppose it is up to you if she is to leave it.”

Her voice was carefully empty as she addressed him in the doorway. It occurred to him that she was blocking his entry, exerting some type of dominance in a delicate and clandestine way. You enter under my sufferance, or not at all.

Lucius narrowed his eyes at her, hackles raised. “I do not like the rug, Narcissa. See that it is removed.” He turned his back on her and gestured towards the carriage. “See that someone attends my prize, the choicest of flowers that I was gifted with,” he drawled sarcastically. “And I shall walk into my home, treading on crimson cloths.” He gave her a mocking bow. “Like some Muggle emperor home from the wars.”

He moved to the entrance, wondering why she watched him with a hawk's gleam in her dove's eyes. “See to my things,” he said, as he walked with head raised high into Malfoy Manor.

The Lord of the Manor had returned. His wife would have to remember her place, and mind that he would take over the rule of Malfoy Manor and all that she had kept in stewardship during the years of his absence.

Narcissa watched him go, the fury so cleverly hidden from him flowing across her face as she walked to the carriage. She jerked the door open, but gave no more than a passing look at the woman inside before she turned her back.

“Come,” she said in a brusque voice. “You may take leave of the carriage.”

Hermione exited the contraption, shuddering in the bright sunlight even though the temperature was warm and comfortable. She looked up at the house, a terrible grief on her face.

Narcissa moved to walk towards the house, then stopped and looked back as the sound of footfalls on the gravel had ceased. Hermione had not moved from her place in front of the black carriage. “Well, then, are you not going to do as I say? Come along.”

Hermione did not move, but instead stared up at the sun, turning her face towards it and closing her eyes. “I saw the thestrals that pull the carriage. I imagine everyone does, now. Do you? You will soon enough.” She laughed, the sound manic and lilting.

Narcissa made a sound of disgust. “Madwoman! I am surrounded by them, it seems. Very well, if you wish to stay here by the carriage and sleep with the thestrals, I shall not dissuade you. It would be an easier night, I imagine, that what my husband has planned for you.”

Narcissa instructed the house-elf to fetch Hermione when she entered the Manor. “See that the girl is taken to Lucius' chambers, as that is no doubt where he wishes her, but feed her first,” she said. The house-elf nodded, sensing the tension, and scurried off to do her bidding.

Narcissa walked towards the stairs and then paused, turning slowly to watch as the girl walked cautiously into Malfoy Manor. She noted that Hermione avoided stepping on the crimson rug, and their eyes met as the younger witch came into the coolness of the house.

They stared at each other, and Hermione inclined her head. Narcissa said nothing save, “Close the door, Bitsy.”

Both women watched as the light of the sun was blocked by the door closing, trapping them inside the Manor like the door swinging shut on a tomb. Hermione started to laugh, the sound mad, wild, desperate.

“Take her away,” Narcissa bit out, walking up the stairs, ignoring the fine trembling in her long-fingered, elegant hands.


Part Three: Vengeance

“A woman will die for a woman…and a man for a man who was wedded to woe.”—Cassandra Aeschylus' Agamemnon

She stood before the door that separated her rooms from Lucius' chambers, hands folded inside her robe, twisting and pulling at the fabric. Smoothing the lines of her face, she pushed the door open and shut the door behind her.

Lucius lay in the bath, his lean body sprawled in arrogant splendor in the warm water. His hair was damp and looked almost white, slicked back off his aristocratic face. Narcissa moved silently, pulling at the ties to her robe.

“It has been a long time since I've had a proper bath,” Lucius remarked, lashes still veiling the grey of his eyes. “I've missed it.” His mouth quirked a bit. “The rose petals were a nice touch, wife.”

Narcissa smiled briefly. “Thank you. I know how much you appreciate decadence.” She finished disrobing, and with a lazy wave of her wand conjured the bathtub to grow in size to accommodate them both. “Your… prize is in the kitchens, having a meal. She is to be conducted to your rooms, as I imagine that is where you will want her.”

Lucius laughed. “She is mad, Narcissa, utterly mad. It does not matter if she eats or not, as I doubt she'll live through the night.” His smile widened, unpleasantly. “In fact, I am planning that she will not.”

Narcissa slid into the hot water, moving towards him. “She has suffered much.”

He nodded, eyes drifting open, mercurial gaze warm with heated desire. Though whether it was for her or the eventual capitulation and destruction of the young woman he'd brought home, she did not know.

Neither did she care.

“She will suffer more,” he said, pulling her towards him. His body was lean and hard, and littered with more than a few scars, silvered on his white skin.

She traced them with her fingertips, fitting herself against him, feeling his cock lengthen and harden against her. “How many of these are from battle, and how many are from our Lord?”

He captured her wrist and squeezed, making her breath catch in pain. She grew wet at his touch, though she wanted to damn him for it. He was a sadist, naturally gifted at causing the most exquisite pain, and she could never resist that about him. “Enough,” he whispered and sucked her fingers into his mouth.

She moved to straddle him, reaching up to let down her hair. Blonde, with a few discreet streaks of grey, it tumbled around her shoulders, curling just slightly in the steam from the bath.

“Still beautiful, I see,” he said, disinterestedly. His cock pressed hard against her, and she laughed huskily.

“Still eager to fuck anything that moves, I see,” she said tauntingly, moving her hips.

“You underestimate yourself,” he murmured, leaning forward, catching at her skin with his sharp teeth. “Right now, I am eager to fuck you .”

“No,” she said, running hands up the water-slicked skin of his chest. “You underestimate me.” She dropped her head, hands twining in his hair. She pulled sharply, and he hissed. “You always have.”

“My little ice queen,” he whispered, excited, hands rough on her nipples as he twisted and pulled. “Is your cunt made of ice? For it feels like it is hot enough to me…” He slid a finger inside of her, and she clenched around him reflexively.

“Even ice burns, darling,” she cooed, before she rode his hand eagerly.

He laughed. “It's been far too long since I've had the pleasure.” His hands withdrew from between her legs to slide around her waist, fingers digging into her with bruising strength.

“Indeed. And will you fuck her like you fuck me, the whore you've brought back?” She slid hands to his shoulders to gauge her nails into his flesh as he liked.

“Oh, no, Narcissa. She is just a toy to be played with and then discarded.” He brought her down on his cock, and she threw her head back and moaned. Faithless as she had been, he was still perfection and she could not resist him.

“Yes, I will hurt her and she will be dry, aching, destroyed when I am finished,” he murmured, pulling her down so he could lick her neck.

She will not be the only one, husband.

“Tell me,” Narcissa gasped out, riding him hard, shoving her hips against him demandingly. “Tell me what you will do to her, how you will hurt her….” She clenched her muscles around him, pulling at his cock, smiling as he hissed in pleasure.

“Let you watch, if you want,” he gasped, fucking her hard, water sluicing over the bath in his furious possession. “Want to watch me take her, fuck her, hurt her…”

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa bit out, and images of blood and death danced tantalizingly in her brain, but they did not feature Lucius' would-be paramour.

“Maybe…I'll let you…kill her,” Lucius gasped, head thrown back. Narcissa watched the corded muscles in his neck as he strained towards his pleasure. “Would you…like that…my frosty bitch?”

“Yes, yes,” she panted. It was sublime, the pleasure, the pain as he fucked her and twisted her nipples and sank his teeth into her shoulder as he came with a gasp inside of her.

Narcissa moaned, loud and long, as her orgasm caught her and she came, hard, on his cock.

He pulled her to lie on top of him, replete. “Quite a welcome home,” he murmured, and Narcissa smiled as she traced patterns on his chest.

“I've something else planned for you,” she murmured quietly. “That will surpass even this.”

Lucius was sleepy and sated, thinking only of dinner and the pleasures of torture and rape that awaited him for dessert. He did not hear the suppressed excitement, dark and deadly, in her whispered words. “How lovely.”

“Long have I planned this, Lucius,” she whispered, pulling away from him, as her heart had begun to pound anew. This time, it was not from desire. The lust she felt was darker and deadlier, and would only be sated by his blood on her hands. She exited the tub but did not bother to dry herself or wrap back up in her silk dressing gown.

He leaned back, arms on the side of the tub, head back again. “Mmm? I am heartily surprised, Narcissa, to hear that you spent this much time thinking of me.”

She reached for her wand, and spoke the words to bind him in a rush, though she wanted to savor them. His eyes flew open, and he scowled at her. “If you wanted to keep me here for another round, darling, I could have postponed my appointment with the Mudblood.”

Narcissa laughed. “That will not be necessary,” she said evenly, and opened the door to the closet, tugging someone out to stand next to her. Hermione stood there with eyes deadened, mouth working as if she was trying to speak.

Lucius struggled, water spilling from the tub. “Undo this at once, Narcissa. You have no reason to be jealous of her . Young she might be, my dear, but hardly competition for you. I will take my pleasure of her and kill her, you know my preferences for such things. She shall not live past the night to trouble you.”

Hermione continued to speak, though silently, unable to be heard.

“You are right about that, Lucius,” Narcissa said, running a hand over the girl's curls. “She shall pay for your crimes, the poor, mad thing.” She patted Hermione's cheek in a mocking caress.

“You would punish her, take my pleasure away from me? Out of spite and jealousy? I have fucked other women before, Narcissa, and you've not killed anyone because of it.” Lucius' voice was tense, though he had ceased struggling. He gave her a petulant look, looking remarkably like Draco when told he could have no more sweets as a child.

Narcissa summoned the knife, an elegantly worked piece of steel, and walked up to Hermione. She traced it over the girl's lips. “Soon, you will find your release.” Tears spilled from the girl's eyes and she nodded, understanding, appearing relieved.

Walking over towards Lucius, she traced the tip of the knife over his chest. He shuddered and hissed, thought not in pain. “Ah, my husband. Ever have you found pleasure in things too depraved to speak of.” She traced the knife down his body, deep beneath the water, and pressed the flat of the steel blade over his flaccid cock.

“Abandon yourself, if you dare, to those pleasures now,” she whispered, and Lucius stared at her with glacial eyes.

“Stop it,” he hissed, as Narcissa turned the point towards the vein running down his cock. “Why are you doing this? For the sake of one worthless Mudblood bitch? If you want, I'll toss her out the window and be done with her.”

“Oh, no, Lucius. This is not about your little prize. This is about my sister,” Narcissa said, drawing the knife back up his chest.

“Bellatrix?” His voice was disbelieving.

“No, Lucius,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him. She spoke the words against his lips. “Andromeda.”

He stilled, completely, and she knew that he understood.

“My sister, whom you sacrificed to the Dark Lord. Pure and beautiful, you gave her the potion that made her fall in love with that…creature. That Mudblood . Just what you needed, wasn't it, to get the House of Black allied with Voldemort.” She traced the knife around his nipples. One hand disappeared into the water, she caressed his cock, which had hardened briefly but now lay softened once more against his thigh.

“You cannot abandon yourself to your sadistic pleasures, now, can you, husband?” She smiled. “Not when you understand, with your strategist's mind, what I have wrought here.”

“Who told you this nonsense?” Lucius muttered, but there was an edge of desperation as sharp as the knife's edge moving up his chest, towards the vulnerable hollow of his throat.

“I have not slept alone while you have been gone, Lucius,” Narcissa murmured. “The one who has become my lover is well-known to you.”

“Severus.” His words cemented his guilt, and Narcissa nodded almost sadly.

“Yes,” Narcissa said, pulling back, leaving the knife edge pointed at his throat. “He told me how you asked him for the spell, and how he could deny you nothing, being so enamored of you, his lover.” She paused to smirk at him briefly. “I always knew that, Lucius, always. Such a beautiful image in my mind, you so fair and he…” She shivered slightly. “It is a shame I never will see that.” She continued on with her tale, stroking the knife against him slowly. “He told me how you gave the potion to my sister, so she found herself in love with that vile Ted Tonks. How the spell made it so that she would defy her family for him. How this was what you needed to make my father pledge his allegiance to Voldemort, in the rage that resulted from her betrayal.” Narcissa sighed, the sound soft. She reached in and captured one of the rose petals floating on the surface.

“My sisters were taken from me. Andromeda by treachery, and then Bellatrix by Azkaban and madness. My father by the Dementors. And this is what I'm left with, you and your whore whom you've brought back.” She shook her head sadly. “I can never forgive you this, Lucius. Anything else, your infidelities, your allegiance to a madman, anything I could have weathered, but not this.”

“ Toujours pur , we were once,” she murmured, stroking the knife at his throat. “And now, it is true no longer. The last of the Blacks without a mark on her soul was me. And I lay the death of that at your feet.”

Before he could say a word, she smiled and drew the knife point across his throat, watching as his blood spilled into the water, down his pale chest, and splashed into the bath.

He choked, his eyes destroyed as he stared at her. She watched as life slowly left faded from his eyes, and he struggled before he laid supine and dead in the bath. His life's blood dripped into the water, mingling with the rose petals.

Narcissa stood from where she knelt beside him, then turned towards Hermione with the knife raised, a gentle smile on her face. “Come, child. Let me ease your suffering. I swear to you, this will be far gentler than the death he had in mind for you.”

She waved her wand and released the silencing spell, and Hermione moved towards her. The younger woman cast her eyes downward, where bloody water had run over the tub and splashed down on the floor. “The floors will run with blood…”

Narcissa made a soft, cooing noise and opened her arms.

Hermione closed her eyes and let herself be embraced. Narcissa moved the knife and slid it between her ribs, sure and quick, and the blood flowed thick and heavy down to mingle with his.

Severus entered and gave Narcissa an arched look as she cradled Hermione's body in her arms, murmuring to the girl softly as she pressed her eyelids closed. “Suffer your madness no longer,” Narcissa whispered, reverently.

“What you have done here is madness, Narcissa. I told you to use poison, so their deaths would not be traced back to you.” His eyes flickered towards the goblets of wine on the small table before the fire, then back to the blood. His voice was thick with distaste. “You've made quite the mess.”

“Do not worry, my love. You and I hold the power in this house. We will put things to right, once and for all.” Narcissa's voice was defiant, determined. She let Hermione's body drop to the floor, and gazed at him seriously, her body naked and wet and bloodstained. Blood caught in the blonde strands of her damp hair as she ran her hands through it.

Severus stared at her for a long moment, avoiding gazing upon the bodies of his former lover and his former student. He held his hand out to her, slowly. “Come. Let us clean you up. We must dispose of this mess.”

Somewhere, a young blond, gray-eyed man cried out with dreams tormented by death and despair, and the seeds of bloody vengeance were sown once again.


~Finis


“Oh, Orestes, if he still sees the light of day, may good fortune bring him home, may he kill this pair and be the final victor.”—Chorus Aeschylus' Agamemnon