The Radiant

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Ginny slid out of bed as quietly as she could. Lucius was a notoriously light sleeper, and he woke up at the slightest sound or slightest depression of their mattress. She figured that it was a dreg left over from his more troubled past. It was nearly preternatural, the way his eyes would snap open if she even shifted in her sleep. That—combined with the tightness of his arms wound around her waist—made it difficult for her to ever slip out of the bed without his noticing.

This time, she made it out of the linens without the click of his eyelids coming open. He looked peaceful, lying there. She stopped to look at him for a moment. It had been a happy week for him after the initial distress of the visit to her family. It had been a happy week for the both of them. Especially in sleep, the lines that were always so evident, bracketed around the corners of his mouth—they were lessened, lightened. Ginny thought it was because he had been smiling so much lately, he standing behind her absent-mindedly as she shuffled through books on the library shelves, wrote standing up, picked out her trousers, stirred a bowl of batter. He would keep a hand loosely and warmly on her stomach, quietly watching what she was doing. She wouldn’t try to engage him in conversation, because she knew that his mind was in another place, anyway.

He was more careful in fucking her, and that was different and sometimes odd. It wasn’t even fucking anymore—it was more making love, and that was a bit startling. Ginny didn’t mind the gentler way he was handling her, but she missed the way he would wind a hand into her hair and ride her hard from behind, slathering filthy words across her ear-whorls, biting at her neck.

She padded out of the room, grabbing one of his dressing gowns as a shield for the midnight chill throughout the sleeping Manor. The gown pooled around her feet, the sleeves hanging like a kimono, and when she walked, the fabric slithered across the carpet behind her like a train. She forgot, sometimes, how much bigger he was than her in terms of broadness, in terms of musculature and build.

She was hungry. She had always though that cravings were a sort of urban legend, but the other week she had begged Lucius so grievously for pickle-flavoured crisps—a commodity the Manor had none of—that he had first grimaced and then snapped at her, and then eventually gone out, dressed less flamboyantly than usual, sans robes, and with his brilliant and unusual hair tucked up under a hat, finding a grocery store in the Muggle community that sold them.

She would have gone herself but she wanted to see if he would do it.

He did. When he came back into the Manor, he had thrown the chips on the floor by her feet, but she knew that he hadn’t been really that angry because he had sat beside her on the couch, keeping her head on his thigh as she curled up beside him, and had let her feed him the crisps one by one, not even looking down at her as she slotted them into his mouth.

She pulled his robe tighter around her body as she walked, breathing in the verbena and clove scent. She liked to smell like him. She liked to smell him around her.

Ginny wondered, sometimes, if she had lost any of herself in him—in the relationship, in the crannies of the Manor, in the opulence that surrounded her as opposed to the stacked and cramped Burrow where she used to live, the little flat she had rented, her smaller previous life, a life that had been less glittering, quieter, homier.

She thought that she had—lost a part of herself, that was. But maybe not lost. Ginny thought that perhaps it was not lost but was rather warmed and now fitted into her being a little differently, the shape of it a little warped but needing to be rotated within herself in order to click. Maybe a part of herself had joined with an erstwhile part of Lucius’ self and that was—

Maybe her child.

Talking with her family always made her think. They wanted to believe in brainwashing, in black magic, in emotional and even physical abuse. When it came down to it, Ginny struck Lucius far more than he had ever done to her, even during sexual play. And there was no way anyone could emotionally abuse her, because after the ordeal with Tom, she had purposefully decided not to become ragged and porous, not to become accepting of further abuse from anyone else. There were two ways she could have swung—becoming the veritable sponge for a vicious cycle to begin, or to become hardened. She became hardened—hit harder on the Quidditch field, wrote clearer and sharper in her assignments, her articles, her columns, raged farther in the bedroom, becoming more voracious.

She rounded the corner to the kitchen, pleased to see that the elves were off-duty and that the glistening room was empty, that she could explore as she wished.

There was still left-over beef in the ice-box, plates still from their earlier dinner where Ginny had eschewed the meat and instead had cake for dinner while Lucius had watched with a wrinkled nose. Now, she wanted the beef. She yanked it out with happiness and set a plate for herself, standing at the counter, leaning half on her left elbow, spearing the food with gusto. It was cool in the kitchen, but she found that the pregnancy made her warmer on occasion and she ignored it, feeling the texture of the meat on her tongue, sated.

“Ginny?”

Her name startled her—it was Lucius, blearily rubbing at his eyes, his hair pulled back but falling out of the ribbon, creating a soft, bright halo around his head, his chest and feet bare and only a light pair of sleep pants on him—she was open-mouthed at his use of her informal name, something that she had never heard him say.

“What are you doing?” He was still dashing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and Ginny looked down at the plate in front of her.

“I was hungry.”

“It’s three in the morning. I woke up and you were gone. I had to ask the elves where you were.”

“I thought they were off-duty. Did you wake them? Shite.” He was staring at her. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry,” she said, offhandedly, not really sorry. “But I really needed something—salty.”

“And something bleeding, it seems.” Lucius looked around her and saw the slab of rare beef on her plate, alongside the mashed potatoes. “Stop that. Stop!” He tried to pry the saltshaker out of her hands as she liberally dosed her food. “That’s not healthy for you or the baby.”

“I don’t care,” she practically grunted back, wrenching the shaker out of his hands and giving her plate one last dash before setting it out of his reach. “I just want to eat.” Ginny yanked open a kitchen drawer and pulled out some cutlery, switching the duller knife she had in her hands for a sharper one, savagely slicing into the thick slice of meat. Lucius watched, half in horror and half in appreciation, as clear red liquid oozed out. Ginny shoved a piece in her mouth, half-moaning as she chewed. “Good lord, yes.”

When she had swallowed and looked over at Lucius, she burst out laughing.

“What?” He still sounded tired, his voice delicious and deep from sleep.

“The look on your face—you look disgusted.” Ginny cut off another piece. “But also fascinated. And possibly turned on.” She popped the food in her mouth, grinning as best she could at him.

“Come on. Bring your plate to the library. It’s cold in here.” He shifted on his feet.


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Lucius settled her in his biggest wingback chair, and Ginny was so focused on her food that she let him sit her down, and didn’t even protest as he slipped behind her, slinging a strong leg on either side of her, looking down over her shoulder as she ate determinedly.

“Hello,” she eventually said, looking back over her shoulder, and when he kissed her he could taste the juice of the steak and the salt from the mashed potatoes, and it made him nearly smile.

“Hello,” he hummed, and as she turned back to the plate on the ottoman in front of her, Lucius slid a big hand from around her body, moving it down her front and spanning it across her lower stomach, cupping the slight curve that had developed there. Ginny put down her knife and fork for a moment, savouring the light clink they made as they rested on the plate.

She leaned back into him, sliding a smaller hand across his, and stroked her thumb along his skin. They didn’t speak—she felt no need to and didn’t want to make him engage in meaningless conversation in such a moment, anyway.

He made a soft sound over her shoulder, and Ginny smiled into the dark library, straight ahead, feeling his hand tighten on her skin. After a moment, she leaned forward slightly again, resuming eating, putting the plate on her knees instead of the ottoman. Lucius kept his hand cupped across her stomach, his fingers palpating softly every so often.

“Our child likes red meat. I’m oddly proud,” he murmured, pushing her nightshirt up slightly and touching his hand to her bare skin.

“Probably a little barbarian already.” Her words were mumbled around the food.

“You’re going to make yourself sick from eating too fast.”

“Hm.” She continued, nearly done the plate. “I want an onion.”

“What?” He craned his head to look at her. “Raw?”

“Yes,” she breathed, finishing the meat, and Lucius winced, and then called the elves, asking for a whole onion to be brought to Ginny.

“And a knife, please. And some salt. And some mayonnaise.”

Lucius flinched. “Good god, that sounds disgusting.” His throat made a gagging sound next to her ear.

Balius appeared with the food and Ginny lunged forward, a grin on her face as she grabbed the items from him. Lucius found himself looking at her creamy white back, the lace of the nightgown revealing inches of silken skin.

“I remember mum telling us that when she was pregnant with Ron, all she wanted were sweets. She was big on treacle and cream and apparently licorice, too. She’d put licorice in everything. I think she asked dad to put licorice on her chicken, once.” Ginny was speaking absentmindedly as she sliced the onion into petals. Lucius watched as she sprinkled salt on each piece and then dipped it in mayonnaise.

“Does that taste good?”

“I just wanted onions. And salt.” She put more of said seasoning on her food on until Lucius snatched it away from her.

“I told you that was bad for you.” He tossed the shaker across the room, uncaring of where the granules landed. “You’re going to pickle our child.”

“Spoilsport,” she muttered, eating the onions with such alacrity and speed that he was impressed. “Spilling the salt means that we are going to have a fight.” She looked back over a shoulder at him and grinned. “Our child likes strong-tasting things, it seems.” She licked her fingers, sucking the tips into her mouth, tracing around her skin with her tongue. He watched as she caught a drip of mayonnaise with her mouth, closing her eyes as she savoured it.

His hand was still on her stomach, warming her skin, and she sighed happily as she shifted forward in the chair, lining up his front with her back, pressing against her. As he lazily kissed her shoulders, she murmured unintelligibly, settling her bottom more snugly between his open thighs.

After she finished her food, she pushed the ottoman away from them with her feet, and placed her hands on his knees, squeezing him as he slid his hands up her torso to span just under her breasts.

“Did seeing me eat that turn you on?” She sounded breathless and he remembered Narcissa’s pregnancy—how easy she had been to arouse, how much sex they had had, how hot she had always been, on fire practically—and Lucius nodded.

“The combination, I think, of seeing your mouth at work—and the fact that you are feeding our child.” He moved his hands upwards and tugged the nightgown off of her, pulling it down to her waist, baring her breasts. When he brushed his fingers across her chest, he realised that her nipples were already hard and straining. “You’re turned on, too.”

“Always. So touch me. Touch me,” she nearly panted, moving her hips rhythmically against him, the flesh of her bottom pressing into his groin, her hands clenching and releasing on his legs.

Lucius brought his right hand up to his lips and sucked the first two fingers into his mouth. When he withdrew them, he brought that hand down the front of her body, pulling her nightgown up around her hips, and Ginny widened her legs immediately.

Lucius slipped two long fingers between her thighs and pushed them into her as slowly as he could manage, pressing as deep inside of her—the warmth so hot he nearly exclaimed—as he could, slightly scissoring as he began to move in and out.

Ginny pitched forward somewhat, and he had to clamp his other arm down around her waist to keep her upright and sitting against him. She moaned out and lifted her legs, draping them over his own legs. When he spread his thighs, hers spread even wider.

“Yes,” she breathed. “God—yes. Your hands—your hands—” She tilted her head back and bit at his neck, licking at him with her pointed tongue.

Lucius could hear how wet she was just by the slick movements his fingers were making, and when he curled them inwards and upwards, Ginny nearly jerked off of his lap. He tightened his grip around her middle and kept her held back tightly into him. As she mewled and gasped, he shifted his fingers around, trying to find the specific spot to palpate with his long fingertips—

When she yelled out loud, he knew that he had found it, and he pressed into her, hard, his fingers making furious, quick motions. Ginny had been rendered wordless by that time, her head flung back onto his shoulder, her mouth open and panting, her eyes wide as the muscles in her coltish legs tensed and relaxed haphazardly.

Lucius kept the pace, relishing the wet sounds his hand was making, the rhythm of his palm hitting against her skin as he plied her with his fingers. Ginny was pleading with him, slurring incoherent words as she kept spreading her thighs wider and wider.

When he moved his thumb at an awkward angle, rubbing briefly against her clitoris, Ginny’s body jack-knifed, her legs pressing against his as they tried to close instinctively. As she came, she cried out his name, amongst other unintelligible things, and he was amazed, once again, at the sheer power of her inner muscles as she convulsed around his fingers.

He expected her to go completely limp, but Ginny quickly reached back between her legs and brusquely pulled his sleep pants down just far enough to release his cock. Lucius watched her, slightly open mouthed, as she slid off his lap, from under his loose arm, and yanked the pants off his legs completely. As he watched her, she turned back around to the position she was in before, sliding back onto his lap so that his length rested between her thighs. She placed a foot flat on each of his spread thighs, and braced her hands on the arms of the chair, arching her body back.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Guide yourself into me.”

Lucius snapped out of his reverie and grasped himself in one hand, lining himself up with her entrance, and she slid down onto him. He could feel her inner thighs shaking, and when he ran his hands up her body—above him—she was damp with sweat.

“Fuck me,” she hissed, and Lucius stiffened for a moment. Ginny hissed again. “I won’t break. I won’t break. The doctor said it was fine. I’m going mad, you bastard.”

Lucius moved into action, then. He braced her with his hands, alternating from her hips to her lower back to her upper back, holding her in place above him as he thrust up into her, using his feet, planted on the ground, for leverage. They didn’t speak, not during this coupling, and the dark library rang only with the clapping of soft flesh meeting hard flesh, and the soft, animalistic sounds that Ginny was making.

He wondered what they might look like to someone who would come in the door—his lover, on top of him, her legs splayed and everything in full view, him below her, pistoning in and out of the soft, wet place between her legs, his testicles bouncing off of her body, his thighs smacking against her. He kept up a hard, hard pace—a steady pace, deep, unrelenting thrusts, and she wallowed in it, her low, fraught sounds becoming raspier as he fucked her thoroughly.

Lucius reached a hand around, using only one palm to steady her body, and used the same two fingers that had been inside of her to relentlessly stroke her clitoris again, and Ginny’s sounds became harsh cries as she came once more, her vaginal walls contracting around him so tightly that he came immediately, releasing deep and hot inside of her.

She relaxed onto him with a slick smack, and he remained inside of her as she rocked her hips slightly, riding out her climax, still moaning softly.

“Love you,” she murmured, reaching an unseeing hand up behind her to stroke along his strong jaw.

“I know,” he hummed, lifting her off of him and slipping out from inside of her, standing her in front of him, watching as his come dripped slowly out of her too. “Beautiful,” he said appreciatively, fixing her nightgown—pulling it down around her thighs and slipping the straps back up her shoulders. “You should sleep now.”

Ginny smiled down at him and extended both hands, and when he took them she pulled him up. They stood, almost face-to-face, for a moment, and Lucius clasped his hands around her, his fingertips just at the top of her buttocks.

“Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?” Ginny’s voice was soft, and she was looking up at him.

“Both. All. Any.” Lucius kissed the top of her head. “I don’t say it enough, but I’m so thrilled that you are pregnant. I can’t even imagine what it’s going to be like when you start to really show. I rarely saw Narcissa toward the end of her pregnancy—she was confined to bed-rest.”

Ginny kissed his chest, rubbing her cheek over the skin there, back and forth, trying to keep him in the present, trying to wordlessly let him know that she was here, that she would let him see everything, see all.

And when his hands tightened on her buttocks, she knew that he realised.


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Lucius watched as Ginny slept next to him. She had torn off her nightgown, then grumped at him for being “too warm”, and had then kicked the blankets down, falling asleep quickly, and her naked body was stretched out, one arm flung above her head. He recognised that pose—he often woke up as she was now positioned, one arm across his forehead or above his head, one arm out across the bed. Lucius smirked to think that even his sleeping patterns were rubbing off on her. Try as he might to reform himself, a barbaric part of him still loved to see her taking on some of his traits, as though those subtle changes marked Ginny as his, irrevocably.

The pregnancy was going to do that as well, and it thrilled that ancient and masculine part of him.

Lucius wondered, for a moment, if Ginny had rubbed off on him in any way.

It all came down to tolerance, he supposed. Before her—he never would have spoken to the Mudblood.

He grimaced, even in the dark, as he thought of the Granger girl—woman—female. She was annoying as all hell, and poorly put together, and came from dirty and swirled blood, but she was smart, and she was eloquent, and he admired—admired!—her bluntness. She was, horrifically, starting to grow on him.

Lucius decided, right there, that Hermione would be the only one of Ginny’s compatriots to ever be tolerated by him. He drew the line right after entertaining a dirty-blooded know-it-all in the Manor—there would be no other Weasleys in his house, no other friends of Ginny’s that irked him so.

Even as he made the silent vow to himself he knew that he would change it as soon as she asked. He stifled a groan and rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking back down at the lithe young woman who had changed his life so.

It was three in the morning. He always seemed to find himself awake at this time. Usually it was because one of them had turned to the other in the night, layering kisses across skin. A few times he had been woken up in the middle of the night by Ginny lowering herself down onto him. He always seemed to be hard around her, and she was always so wet and so hot. Sometimes he was awake because of his nightmares, which were so common that he had never even told Ginny about them because there was just no cause for worry. Every night he dreamed of lurid, twisted things, but the dreams were so prevalent and he had been dealing with them for so many years that he didn’t even jerk awake on screams anymore—he had stopped having the sweats and shakes that went along with them many, many years ago.

If those were the only major dregs from his past, he could handle the dreams.

He didn’t want his child to have nightmares like that.

He knew that Draco had had nightmares like that. Lucius had heard him, all throughout Draco’s teenaged years—in his sleep, Draco would cry out, making piteous and hoarse sobbing sounds. And he had known—Lucius had known—that it had been his actions that had caused those night terrors for Draco. Father and son would probably never talk about it now, in the present, but the nights that Lucius was actually home, and heard, he would slip into Draco’s room and sleep beside him for the night, one arm thrown around his son’s shoulders.

In the morning, Lucius would leave before Draco would wake up, so his fifteen-year-old son would always be completely unsure as to if his father had actually come in and comforted him.

Lucius wished, now, that he had stayed the whole night, waiting until Draco woke up.

Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything. He didn’t even know if his grown son still had the nightmares to this day.

Lucius sighed, and then watched as his sigh caused Ginny to stir in her sleep. Her body was faced towards him, her breasts pillowed on her outstretched arm. She had kicked the sheets off in her sleep, exposing the long, white lines of her body, and the very slight roundedness of her stomach.

Lucius blinked, and was surprised to feel wetness on his cheeks. Before her, he couldn’t truly remember the last time he had cried. And now—now he was sobbing like a woman at every chance he got.

She didn’t seem to mind, though. She licked his tears off of his skin, would wipe at his face with the sides of her hands, smiling at him, her lips curved.

He didn’t truly understand her. She was an enigma, like he had been called an enigma—and maybe it was this that made her so attractive to him. She couldn’t be really figured out—there were layers like onionskins, some soft and translucent and easy to peel, some thickened and tough and stalwart. He wasn’t quite sure what was at the core.

Ginny had started reading to him, which he had at first found odd but now loved. She told him that it was practice for the baby—that maybe the baby could hear already—and she would sling a long leg around him and rest her chin on his shoulder, reading books by Muggles—Robert Louis Stevenson, Johann David Wyss, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, Laura Ingalls Wilder—books about prairies and wildlife and pirates and children, books written before his time, before her time. She said that she had found them when she was younger, at a used bookstore in a corner of Diagon Alley.

They smelled proper. They smelled like old books should. He liked them, but he never said so.

And so Ginny would read to him, absentmindedly trailing fingertips in his hair as she held the book with one hand, or as he held the book with both hands, and Lucius would lean against her, mindful of her slight bump, settling his weight to the side of her.

And she would break between words sometimes, and just inhale, and he knew that she was smelling him, because then she would tighten her arms and legs around him, pressing her breasts into his back, kissing his pulse.

Lucius lay back down in the bed, facing his sleeping partner. Her breasts moved softly with every inhale and exhale, her nipples soft, her throat stretched. He brushed a red snarl out of her face, and she made a soft sound at his touch, moving instinctively closer to him even in sleep. He folded his arms around her and decided that everything about this new family was going to be right—he was going to do it right—it was going to be right, done right, said right, made right.

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