Ice

Chapter 4: The Prince of Darkness is a Gentleman.----Shakespeare, King Lear

Lucius Malfoy saw her from across the room and found himself staring at her.

Despite what he'd said to her a few nights ago at the McNair's party, he had known perfectly well who she was. Bellatrix's sister Narcissa - the quiet one, the pale English flower in the dark, exotic garden of roses that made up the Black family, the sole daughter not named after some celestial body. She did not have the heavy-lidded eyes and dangerous sensuality of Bellatrix or even the captivating, sparkling beauty of her exiled sister. She was remote and aloof, icy and controlled. Her eyes flashed neither with mischief nor joy, but their blue depths were infinitely more appealing to him for the very reason that he could not conceive of the thoughts that ran through her mind.

Lucius Malfoy was an unrepentant rake. He was fully confident he'd add other equally unsavory epithets to his name in the years to come. He was under absolutely no illusions about himself, his life or the path he had chosen to walk. In his world, people were rarely what they seemed and were usually far worse than they appeared. He himself was no exception. Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't, either. He was certain her family had to know of her involvement with the Dark Lord, but he was often amused to think of the reactions of the Black family to Bellatrix's skillful use of the Crucatious curse.

Narcissa Black had been quiet and unassuming at school. He'd hardly been around her, but he remembered her cool beauty and icy demeanor well. She had a reputation for aloofness that led others to believe she thought herself better than her peers. Bellatrix had always said it was just because Narcissa was quiet, but Lucius privately thought the chit really did think she was better than everyone else. He had never given her much thought. Bellatrix and Andromeda were far more amusing as classmates, and he had probably never exchanged more than four words with the youngest Black.

He was unsure at first why he had pretended not to know her at the McNair's. Perhaps it was the imperious tilt of her chin, the slight narrow-eyed gaze she'd leveled on him, as if he were a pesky house-elf who forgot his place. Never had he imagined her to fling such heated words at him or for her voice to tremble with such deeply concealed rage. He had thought such feelings were beneath her. Apparently, he was wrong.

That was what had enthralled him, that rage. He had been astounded by the hostility that had flared in her midnight eyes, but he was even more enchanted by her uncanny ability to bank that hostility and smile at him as if nothing in the world was the matter before disappearing back into the throng of the crowd. What kind of fire burned beneath that icy exterior? He never would have imagined it, but something about the look in her eyes that night haunted him. She was certainly lovely, all cool blonde perfection, but it was the promise of what lie beneath that loveliness that truly captivated him.

Lucius Malfoy was not a man who was captivated by much. He had grown up the spoiled, only son and heir of a wealthy lineage. His father had been predictably distant and harsh, his mother the type of woman he suspected Narcissa Black pretended herself her to be when it suited her--vapid, inane, concerned only with fashion and material things. It had caused him to be jaded long before his time. What could surprise or enthrall a man who was given everything he could have ever wanted? He was handsome, rich, clever and ambitious. Women adored him, and men courted his friendship. Lucius Malfoy had a very predictable life in store for him--marry a pureblood witch and beget the next Malfoy heir, and then the process would repeat itself. If he managed to increase the family's coffers, so much the better, but his main purpose in life was to further the Malfoy legacy through providing an heir.

Lucius did not doubt for a moment that Miss Black was raised in a similar fashion--to marry well, produce an heir for some respectable wizard and spend her time furnishing a gracious home and hosting parties. It was, after all, what those of their class aspired to--the graceful perfection of a well-kept home and a strong, healthy son to carry on the name.

Lucius had no problem with providing an heir to his name. After all, he was a Malfoy and raised to have the appropriate pride in his noble family. It was the rest of it that drove him mad--doing nothing, taking not a single risk. Drinking firewhiskey in leather chairs and debating the politics of the Ministry were not exciting options to contemplate for his future. He had something inside him that would not allow him to settle for respectability, something dark that pushed him to find the limits to which he could aspire. He played Quidditch with a daredevil approach that either caused his House to win matches or lose them. There was no sense of mediocrity in his life. To settle was death, and the thought filled him with a deep, abiding rage. It was not the mania he saw in Bellatrix Lestrange because Lucius cared for no one cause so much that he would die for it, and he knew how Bellatrix's race would end.

He was a man who was versed in self-preservation from the cradle, taught that nothing mattered more than his name. He was consumed, at the same time, by a darkness that screamed in his skull for him to do something, to fight, to rebel....and the resulting turmoil caused him to be moody, temperamental and vengeful. It had been that turmoil that had driven him from the McNair's ballroom that night, to stare into the darkness of the sky and wish himself a part of it.

And then she had arrived on the porch with her hands fisted in rage, her blue eyes shining and her mouth trembling. It had lasted but a moment, but he was well-versed enough in the experience to know that a moment was all it took. She was no more the proper young witch than he was the proper pureblood wizard. Perhaps that was why he said he did not know her because in that moment, he did not. She was not the Narcissa Black he remembered. With the moonlight glinting in her eyes, the darkness embracing her like a lover, he wondered if she ever had been.

Bellatrix had been his lover, once upon a time, long before she had married Rodolphus. He had known then that she was mad, that she would burn herself out before she was thirty. The darkness within her was matched by a cruelty that would overtake her. Bellatrix Black Lestrange would never have mastery over herself, and this had disgusted him. It still did, although he tolerated her and her husband, who was the same way. It was the reason Lucius had disentangled himself from her; he would not allow her madness to drown him as it would her. He left that unhappy fate to Rodolphus, eager enough in his way to drown with her. Fools, he thought, when they could be so much more if they had control.

His soul recognized Narcissa, as trite as the sentiment sounded. His soul knew her because they were alike, he and Miss Black. They would not drown in the darkness that lived inside of them. No, he and Miss Black were cut from the same cloth; they would drown others long before they themselves sank beneath the waves. Lucius found himself obsessed with the desire to be the one who unlocked that deadly potential of hers. The thought made a smile cut across his savagely handsome face and his gray eyes gleam. He stalked towards where she stood with her sister wearing a placid smile on her face. She was dressed in ice blue robes that showed off her fine appearance but did not hint at what lie beneath. That was what he was going to find; that was what he would uncover. He would strip Narcissa Black of her polished veneer until she trembled beneath him, resplendent in the dark glory that awaited.

Lucius Malfoy always, always got what he wanted, and he wanted Narcissa Black with all of the dark fury that burned inside of him.

******

She saw him coming across the room, and her heart pounded a bit wildly, which was almost a nuisance. Narcissa did not like to be overtaken by emotion in public or anywhere else. She was also entranced, albeit reluctantly, by the look on his face as he approached her--determined and arrogant. His smirk pulled at something deep inside of her, and the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

"Miss Black," he drawled in that cold voice. He captured her hand and bowed over it. She was used to the gesture, but somehow with him it seemed he mocked her.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said demurely, inclining her head ever so slightly in his direction. She tried to stop the smile that played on her lips when he quirked a brow at her submissive tone, but she was unsuccessful.

"Lovely to see you again," he said, and the words sounded flat and insincere. That was not unusual within itself--what was unusual was that the insincerity bothered her for once.

"Likewise," she purred, and his smirk edged into a smile. It made him look younger and not nearly as threatening. She preferred the smirk. She liked him threatening; she had enough suitors who were young and guileless. She thought of Augustus Rockwood and suppressed a shudder.

"I was hoping you would honor me with a dance, Miss Black," he said, although he tightened his hand on hers in such a way that refusal was impossible.

The slight pressure made her breath catch in her throat, and her pulse thrilled to the touch. She remembered him grabbing her arm the other night on the terrace and wondered why it should be so that his rough handling of her should elicit such excitement.

"I would be pleased to accompany you, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her voice slightly breathless. He tucked her arm into his and pulled her onto the dance floor.

"Do you always drag your partners, even the willing ones, onto the floor in such a manner, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked sweetly, blinking innocent blue eyes up at him.

He smiled, but this time it did not look innocent. "Only when they like it," he said in a low, dark voice, and she felt chills run up her spine.

"Ah, such confidence you have, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her own voice low. Narcissa affected a simpering voice several octaves above her normal speaking voice in public; she had a similar throaty voice to Bellatrix, in fact, when she did not feign her speech.

"I do indeed, Miss Black," he said evenly, his gray eyes glittering at her in a most unseemly fashion, "and I daresay you find that attractive." He moved her expertly into a turn, and she laughed, unable to help herself.

"You presume to know a great deal about me, Mr. Malfoy, for someone who only met me a few evenings ago," she said. His fingers tightened on her waist slightly, and his hand curled tighter above her own. She sucked in her breath and the contact, and her body swayed slightly. She had never before reacted in such a manner to any other man while dancing, but Malfoy was hardly in the same league as her usual dance partners.

"Ah, but you forget, we were in school together, Miss Black. The same house, no less," he said in his dark voice, and she raised a brow at him in an imperious fashion.

"I thought you said you didn't remember me, Mr. Malfoy, from our school days together. I had thought perhaps I made little impression on you, and you led me to believe I was correct," she said. He moved her into another turn, and she was aware she was staring into his slate eyes, unsure of what the emotion that shone in them was and what it meant. Her mind raced, feeling more engaged than it had since she'd left school. Certain the arrogant Malfoy would not appreciate being likened to schoolwork, she kept that thought to herself.

"I lied," he said in his drawling voice, his smile entirely without remorse.

She was struck speechless for a moment, unaware of how she looked in his arms. Her blue eyes were narrowed in thought, and he could see her mind whirling as she interpreted his statement and thought carefully of how to respond in this little game of words they were engaged in. He was charmed by her ruthless intelligence and her ability to play the game and appear so perfectly at ease at the same time, although he could feel the slight shudders that wracked her body as he held her, tightened his hold on her and drew her closer to him. He was not sure if they were caused by fear or arousal, but either way, they excited him.

"I confess, Mr. Malfoy," she said with a slight nod of her elegant head, "you have quite unnerved me with that announcement. I am most unused to such blatant admittance of lying in my presence," she said, a slight teasing lilt in her honeyed voice. He found he much preferred the slight purr of her natural voice to her affected society tone.

"You have been sadly lacking in your experience with men of my nature, then," he said and watched in delight as her brow furrowed slightly.

"I did not say I was unfamiliar with lying," she retorted. "Merely in the freely given confession of engaging in it," she said as the music ended, and they stepped apart. She smiled up at him, all perfect and proper, with even a hint of a maidenly blush on her cheeks. "After all, I was in Slytherin. The same house, no less," she mocked him and bowed slightly. "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Malfoy. I believe I have promised the next to Rodolphus."

He watched her, all hints of proper societal behavior evaporating from his gaze. He stared at her with a predatory gleam in his eyes that thrilled her to her core, a hungry expression on his face completely unsuitable to the dance floor. Before she knew quite what he was about, he pulled her into an alcove next to the staircase, pulling her body flush against him.

She squeaked, and then scowled in annoyance. "Mr. Malfoy-" she began, but he leaned down and said in his silky drawl, "I do believe you will promise much more to me, don't you, my dear Miss Black?"

She stared into his eyes, and her breath escaped in a sigh. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, completely aware of the reaction it would cause. He hissed at her and yanked her closer to him. The body that pressed against hers was lean and muscular; he was dangerous in more ways than one. "That depends, Mr. Malfoy, on what you have to offer," she said softly.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "I shall leave that up to your imagination." His voice was so quiet she could barely hear him even as close as he was to her. He did not kiss her but caught her ear in his teeth and bit down lightly.

The moan that escaped her was not one of pain, and he knew it, and she cursed him for it as he turned and left her there, staring after with him with an expression somewhere between bemusement and desire on her face.