The Storm

The Storm

You'd known you were getting into something dangerous after having your first civil conversation with Lucius Malfoy. You'd known he had to have some kind of dark motive, but after Sirius' death you had long since lost the will to live, and you honestly hadn't cared if he did.

You'd sunk easily into a life lived through sensation. It made your knees weak to hear that deep, aristocratic, and slightly teasing voice, right next to your ear. The scent of his hair was thick and heady as it curtained around your faces as he hovered over you, never providing you with enough flesh-on-flesh contact for your liking.

You loved his hair; long, blonde and soft as silk, smelling of peppermint like the expensive shampoo he used. He'd let you wash it sometimes, and you'd gloated in the fact that you were the only one permitted to touch that glorious hair.

The first time he'd touched you, you'd known a storm was brewing. Oh, you'd thought it an innocent enough touch at the time, a reassuring hand on your shoulder. However, as innocent touches had given way to not-so-innocent ones, you'd still fawned in his attentions, soaking up affection like the abused little orphan you were. And you'd loved it.

The first time you'd made love, you'd known you were doomed. But as you lost yourself in the scent of your mingled perspiration and his pounding rhythm, you found that you didn't quite care as much as you had originally suspected you would.

You could tell the storm was getting nearer to its climax when the frenzy with which he made love to you began to increase. You'd known that something was reaching a breaking point that night; you'd felt the static in the air.

He'd made love to you for hours, spilling inside you twice and swallowing your seed three times. Even then, you could tell he hadn't really been satisfied, but you'd run a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and pulled on your favourite set of pajamas resolutely. From the work-out he'd put you through, you figured if they had been made of anything heavier than silk, you might not have found the strength to pull them on.

Then you'd been awoken later that night by the sensation of something cold and hard opening your flesh, slicing through your liver, nudging at one of your kidneys. Your eyes had shot open immediately, bleary in the semi-darkness. You'd known instantly what was going on, but as you instinctively curled your body around the wound, your mind had shouted, 'This wasn't supposed to happen this way!'

He was supposed to kill you while you were awake, facing you so that you could see the emotions in his face. You were supposed to look into his stormy silver eyes, so full of passion. That same passion made you hard just by the realization that it was meant for you and you alone.

You'd stared up into his face, trying to search his eyes, but they'd been shadowed in the dim moonlight. As the strength to speak had left you, you'd managed to croak out, "Why?"

But he'd answered a question you hadn't asked. Your death at his hands had been inevitable. You'd known that. You'd wanted to know why he hadn't honoured you enough to kill you face-to-face. Then you realized he couldn't have done it that way. He hadn't the strength to drive cold metal into the same body into which he'd driven his own heated flesh, with you staring at him, your eyes full of the adoration you found impossible to remove while riveted on him.

As you began to drift away, succumbing to the blinding agony throbbing from your side, you'd felt his lips on yours, soft and pliable. You'd tried to kiss him back, to let him know you understood.

Then, as the storm reached tempest fury, beginning to swallow you into its hazy depths, from somewhere far away you heard his deep voice, gentler than ever you could remember hearing it. "My Harry."

With the last of your strength, your lips formed a word you had long since lost the ability to speak. "Yours."

~~~***~~~

A/N: In case you were wondering about this, there's a reason why there's a lot more sexual innuendo in this ficlet than in its companion. Harry's seventeen...he's a lot more driven by hormones than Lucius. Which is not to say that Lucius didn't enjoy all the sex, but it wasn't his only mindset. So yeah.