Bohemian Rhapsody

moment thirty-one: desecration of the temple (December 21, 1979).

Narcissa Morgan stood on the rise of the small hill, amongst the sprawling gardens of Malfoy Manor, her body clothed in twilight, a sheet tightly wrapped around her. Underneath, she was naked. She did her best to ignore the spectacle she must be, tried to ignore the cloaked figure that stood a small way off, his wand raised, his red eyes gleaming in the night sky. Or perhaps worse, the ring of garbed Death Eaters that encircled her, softly chanting under their breath.

This was certainly not how she had imagined things to turn out. Lucius had been attentive and considerate - the perfect gentleman, but she had known that he still pined after another, and on her wedding day just a few months ago she had come to accept that the man she loved than life viewed her rather as little more than a fond convenience; a companion and friend, but no lover. There was no passion between them. Even on their wedding night, Lucius had taken her almost too tenderly, as if he viewed women as porcelain and liable to break if he tried too hard. There had been something mechanical in his love-making, a feeling he was ticking off boxes in his head. Although whatever manual he had garnered his knowledge of heterosexuality from, it was clearly lacking. Narcissa was no blushing virgin, and as Lucius had collapsed on top of her, spent, she blinked her tears away, and made excuses for him, lightly ruffling her hand in his pale silken hair. Women had probably been a non-entity for him, or alien creatures at best. He had never needed to know how to pleasure one before: he had probably never even considered it to be necessary.

In the ensuing months, he had blocked all conversations that veered in that direction, leaving Narcissa not a little hurt and lost. She had tried to be the good wife, but fondness, friendship, consideration - these were not strong enough holds on a man like Lucius, who locked his heart behind an iron cage. She decided she had to bind him to her, and the only way she knew how was to give him an heir, so she could be the mother of his child, and perhaps find a reason to keep going in that.

Three months later, and nothing. She had been to see the healers, and had been told there was a problem, that she had a 'lazy ovary'. What then was there for her, stripped of both sexual consummation as wife and the capacity to mother. And then Lucius had sat her down, and quietly told her desperation of a ritual that was almost guaranteed to conceive a child. She was shocked, at first. Narcissa had known of his political affiliations from before their marriage, and despite her private misgivings she had not said anything, and considered herself lucky that she had not. She was merely the wife: what protection did she have, if she spoke out? Voldemort had made that very clear, and her husband had not allayed her fears.

And so she had assented, because really what did it matter? She was virtually a whore anyway, throwing herself at a man who could not love her? Who cared how many people saw her fuck? She would have a child, at least, be wife and mother finally.

She saw a garbed figure detach itself from the circle and move towards her, standing on the small rise and stripping until he too, was naked. Lucius Malfoy was lean, not especially muscular, but lean. To Narcissa he looked like some kind of sun god, his pale flesh almost glowing in the twilight.

From the circle Severus Snape watched, sick to his stomach. This was a farce, a crime against nature and most of the gods. He didn't particularly care that Lucius was married - it certainly hadn't stopped them fucking, but to be used in this way, for other reason than the Dark Lord's whim, and to use his wife as well...this was not the world he'd dreamed of building. There was no order, only power run mad.

With a start, Narcissa realised that the only thing Lucius was waiting for was her. She trembled slightly, then grew angry at herself. Her family had a direct line of descent going back night on fifteen hundred years; the blood of wizards immemorial ran through her veins. She was young, and beautiful, and unashamed of her body, and anyone who thought so could be damned.

She dropped the sheet, and stood there, naked, for all to behold. No Morgan was ever a coward.

Moving into Lucius' embrace, she tried to forget the prying eyes as he wrapped his arms around her, laying her down on the ground to kiss her breasts. Narcissa tried to ignore the tears that ran down her cheeks, or the steadily increasing chant of the circle, and Voldemort's own voice, like death.

"...Ixiptla...Ixiptla...Ixiptla..."