Bent, But Not Broken

The Manor

On an achingly cold November night, a low, howling wind rustles the high hedge lining the drive as you tentatively approach the heavy, wrought iron gates to Malfoy Manor.

The old country estate, shrouded in mist, is intriguing in its own bleak, lonely splendor, though a distinctive feeling of desolation is unshakeable, lurking in the stagnant, damp air. Dull raps of the elder Malfoy's cane upon the wet, shimmering pathway punctuate the echoes of your own footsteps as he walks beside you. Your quickened breaths turn to fog as they slip through your nose and lips; watching the slow, lazy rain drip languidly from the roof over the manor's entrance, you shudder and draw the lush collar of your black, fur-trimmed coat near to your chin.

You had encountered him by chance this evening in the snaking alleyways behind Borgin & Burke's en route to the apothecary, whilst in pursuit of a rare potion ingredient. What his purpose in Knockturn Alley was you did not know – nor did you care – because there, Lucius Malfoy's cool blue eyes glimmered in the moonlight, explored the silhouette of your body in the shadowy corridor, were drawn by the sheen of the night sky against your silken dress.

The pair of you had stepped into a forgotten dark corner, where his hands found their way to the warmth of your body beneath your coat, first lingering at your waist, and then dropping downwards along the delicate curve of your hip. Grasping the fabric at your thigh, he had slowly curled his fingers, one by one, around the ripples of silk, drawing the hem of your dress higher, higher; holding you there for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled into a smirk, your breath caught in your throat. He knew how to play a good game, damn him.

So you accompanied him to the manor.

Inside, the house, not unlike its exterior, is dark, cold, and eerily still. The blonde, cool enigma leads you through a set of intricately carved double doors to a sumptuously decorated drawing room, where a large table spans nearly wall to wall. With a sudden jerk upon the silver, jeweled snake's head atop his cane, a wand is produced, after which, a dramatic flick and a silent charm conjure flames in the fireplace and, one by one, light the candles stationed in the chandelier above the long, dark table.

The dim glow crawls slowly across the room, the man in front of you standing side-on, a fine figure. For a moment his head is turned, and you admire him in silence; the hem of his dark, velvety coat swinging at his knees, wide lapels spreading across his chest and framing a patterned waistcoat, sage-green silk wrapped elegantly around his neck beneath shining platinum locks. Tucking the cane under his arm, he removes his leather gloves, tugging the fabric at each fingertip.

Neglecting to conceal your coy smirk as you watch his hands move, he returns his gaze to you, raising his eyebrows in a sort of sinister delight. He says nothing now, but turns his wand toward you with a delicate grip; after a whispered incantation, the sash of your coat, cinched tightly at your waist, loosens and drops to your side.

With the sash undone the coat eases open and descends slowly down your arms, past your hips, falling to the floor behind your heels. The chill of the room grasps your bare arms as you are left standing in your black slip dress, the bias-cut of which leaves little to the imagination.

Removing his own coat and the silk from around his neck, he speaks in a smug, posh melody:

"The stories I've heard about you are legend. As of course was your family." His eyes, greedy, full with dangerous lust, trace the contour of your body as you stand before him, vulnerable and desperately alluring.

With his lips shaped into an arrogant pout, Malfoy slips the cane out from under his arm and, plunging the wand back inside, approaches you painstakingly slowly.

"Yes, people have told me all about you, hmm," he says quietly. "You must be very brave."

He stops in front of you, his face inches away from yours. "Why don't you prove it?" he scowls.

Eyes glimmering mischievously back into his, you cast your hand toward his face, meeting his cheek with a brisk slap.

"Insolent brat," he snaps in little more than a whisper. "Do you like misbehaving?"

The wicked smirk emerging as your lips part and curl upward answers his question.