Desire, Reluctance, Temptation
by Liz Barr

She wasn't sure why she kept returning, and in saner moments, she wondered if she was enchanted, or under Imperio, or a love potion.

He'd owl her a few days before a Hogsmeade weekend, letting her know that she should meet him (never in the same place twice) at eleven. She'd tuck the note into her robes, conscious of James' curiousity, and Sirius' jokes, and wonder if this would be the day she said no.

It never was.

She must be enchanted.

She must be.

She was a nice girl; she didn't get caught snogging other students, and she certainly didn't allow boys to get too familiar, sweaty hands roaming under robes.

She didn't do this sort of thing: allow handsome, dangerous men fifteen years her senior to seduce her in Diagon Alley, three days before school started.

She wasn't that kind of girl.

This wasn't real. She must be enchanted.

Lily didn't particularly care to consider the alternative: that she, the pristine Gryffindor Head Girl, was really conducting an affair with a School Governor. That his hands really did slide beneath heavy fabric to cup her breasts; that his cock really did enter her body, that she welcomed his touch and his desire and his skill.

It certainly wasn't real.

Or perhaps it was her other life that wasn't real, because when her back arched under Lucius' fingers, it was all to easy to believe that this was the entirety of her life.


She had entered Knockturn Alley for no better reason than that it was forbidden. Her parents were abroad, and she was spending the last week of the holidays in Diagon Alley, exploring the shops and trying to imagine herself as a permanent part of the magical world. The Head Girl badge sat heavy in her pocket; she couldn't bring herself to look at it, but she couldn't bear to leave it in her rooms. She carried it with her, and wondered if she was good enough to wear it.

Knockturn Alley had looked intriguing and new, and she was compelled to explore it, to prove that she had the courage to be part of Gryffindor, and to prove that she wasn't really as good as everyone said.

He found her in the bookstore, examining a text on foetal matter in potions.

"This is no place for a Muggle-born," he'd said, aristocratic and cold. She hadn't heard him approach.

"Is there a rule to that effect?"

He sneered. "A Gryffindor, then." But she couldn't help noticing that he took an almost imperceptible step closer, and that something inside her wouldn't mind if he took another step, if he touched her, if--

He laid a hand on her arm.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Lily. Lily Evans."

"The Head Girl." He smirked, and took her hand. "Lucius Malfoy."

"The Governor."


He was still touching her hand, stroking it with long, cold fingers. His long hair was so blond as to be white, and not even his beard could disguise the feminine beauty of his mouth.

"You should stay out of these places, Lily," he said softly. "We don't welcome your kind here."

But she felt his eyes on her as she returned to Diagon Alley.


He appeared at her door that evening, with wine and a small, unreadable smile. They sat in her small, cheap room and he lectured her on power while she drank his wine and admired the way his hair gleamed in the candlelight.

"You must understand, Lily," he said as his hands roamed over her jeans, touching her through the thick fabric, "that you cannot have power over someone who doesn't first submit to you."

She couldn't speak: slightly drunk and too aroused to hold a thought. He chuckled as she moaned, and said, "I begin to understand the appeal of Muggle clothing."

She had her first orgasm under his hands, still fully clothed but for her unzipped jeans. Boarding the Hogwarts Express three days later, she wondered if anyone knew what she'd been doing; if it was evident in her face and movements. She was conscious of the male eyes that followed her, and she wondered if they had always done so, or if they sensed some change in their demure Head Girl.

Amazingly, no one said anything. Her best friend, the only person who knew her well enough to notice, had been killed two years before.


He had prepared a Portkey, which he offered her with a small smile. She was rather obsessed with his mouth, drawing it over and over in her schoolbooks. She had fantasies about shaving him: wet, thick lather and a cut-throat razor.

Even the Portkey's customary jerk sent tingles down her spine, and she thought, again, that this arousal could not be natural.

They arrived in a spacious foyer, decorated in a style that bore no resemblance to any Muggle period or fashion.

"You've never brought me to Malfoy Manor before," she said.

"I've been waiting for my father to die." He sounded quite happy as he led her up a spiral staircase. "He passed away last night. It will be in the Prophet tomorrow." With a mocking glance, he said, "you will take a moment to feign grief for him, won't you? Or at least for me -- I'll be playing the bereaved son for the benefit of Ministry and media."

Lily was tempted to ask how Malfoy senior had died, but Lucius' hands were running up her bare legs, and she was suddenly ready to make love to him at the top of the stairs.

He pulled her into another room, a bedroom approximately the size of her parents' house.

"I have no desire to shock the house elves," he murmured, and conscious thought was replaced by sensation: Lucius' beard tickling her inner thighs, and his cold, cold hands on the backs of her legs.


It wasn't his custom to linger, to cuddle her or whisper endearments, but he would allow her to stay a while, long enough to catch her breath and recover her equilibrium. Usually, he dressed and and read a book while she lay in bed, but this time, he remained beside her, stroking her hair.

"I have a friend who would like to meet you," he said.

"I didn't realise that you were telling people about us."

"He's a very close friend." Lucius brushed her left forearm, and raised it to his lips. "He's very impressed with what he's heard about you..."

"What?" She became wary. "That I'm good in bed? That I'm sleeping with a School Governor? What have you been saying, Lucius?"

"That you're a powerful witch..." he ran a finger down her spine, "that you're ambitious ... and brilliant ... and ambiguous..."

"What, precisely, do you mean by that?"

"Lily. Sweet, Gryffindor Lily. Surely you remember where we met?"

"Just because I was exploring Knockturn Alley doesn't mean--"

"It means that you can be taught."


"Lily..." His voice was becoming cold. "Haven't I taught you things already? Haven't you liked them?"

"Yes. But you--" She sat up, picking her clothes up from the floor. "I can't do this anymore."

"Of course you can." He leaned over, and she was drawn back to him in spite of herself. "You want this, Lily," he whispered. His forehead rested against hers, and she was suddenly fascinated by the way their hair mixed: white-blond and dark-red.

"I -- I don't--"

"Poor Lily."

"Don't patronise me," she snapped, and pulled away. She turned her back on him as he dressed, trying to pretend that he wasn't naked, wasn't beautiful, wasn't laughing at her.

"Did you think I'd put you under a spell? Did you think that you could deny responsibility? You wanted this, Lily, you drank my wine and listened to my words, and you wanted me to seduce you."

"I did," she whispered. "I did."

He put a hand on her shoulder, and she suddenly sensed that he was as confused by her as she was by him: he was offering her the best that he had, and she was turning him down.

"Why won't you meet your potential, Lily?"

"Why do you see my potential in terms of the Dark Arts?"

Lucius laughed, his beautiful mouth curling upwards. "You're as dark as I am, Lily. You just don't know it yet."

"Where's the Portkey?"

He stared at her. "The Dark Lord knows of you, now. He wants you -- there's no escaping him."

"I'm leaving."

She had been afraid that he would restrain her, that she'd never see Hogwarts again, but he only watched her walk away.


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