The Room

by darsynia

Notes: Comment fic for a now forgtten member of the lumos sorting community. Written 10/?/05.

She steps from the carriage and nervously smoothes her long skirt with an exsquisitely manicured hand. It is red—a common red, for all its expensive styling. She knows she looks fabulous in it, but he only likes her in blue. She shivers deliciously when she imagines what his reaction will be, and this heady mixture of excitement and fear sustain her as she walks across the foyer behind the scurrying house elf to the door of The Room.

The Room is only for them, although he's never told her so. He is rich enough that he can afford to have a room reserved for only their—his, she chides herself—pleasure. From time to time the furnishings change, but he does not, and usually, neither does she. Except tonight, she's wearing red.

The elf lifts its tiny hand and knocks, sparing her the indignity of doing so herself. Little does this creature of service know that she is of the same profession; hers is far more elegant, however.

His voice echoes through the marble foyer as if he'd been standing in the center of it instead of behind the ornate oak door. "Come," he says—and she shivers. She steps into the room, her throat suddenly dry as she sees him illuminated by the thousands of floating candles. Somehow, the room is still dark in the places where he is not, and she thinks to herself that they would be no matter how many candles he'd conjured.

His grey eyes burn her with an intensity that makes her burn in response to it; anger and lust swirl together in him, coupled with an ironclad control over himself, over her. Those captivating eyes narrow, and he barely breathes the word over again.

"Come," he says— and if they were somewhere else, if they were more primitive, it would have been a growl.

Later on, in their library, Narcissa asks Lucius if he knows just how much money she spent on the red dress that lies shredded and torn in a room downstairs. His eyes burn again—she can see it, although he isn't looking at her—and he says casually that she can always buy another dress. She stands, pausing at the doorway to turn to him and ask if that means he liked it.

His response—striding over to her and sweeping her up in his arms and down the hall to their bedroom—is answer enough.