The Radiant

---


Ginny was careful, when she went out, to wear looser robes. At five months pregnant it was getting harder and harder to disguise her growing belly. While she and Lucius had told their respective families—Narcissa was notified by post and replied by sending dried roses, to which Lucius had shrugged blankly—the public was not yet made aware.

Ginny had hung the roses from the rafters in the kitchen, and smiled up at them whenever she made chicken stock.

Hermione had been told in person, and had responded to the news by bursting into tears and yet also simultaneously laughing. She had then grabbed Lucius into a fierce and crushing embrace, surprising him so greatly that he had waited a few extra seconds before pushing her swiftly off of him, scowling at her and ostentatiously picking hairs off of his robe after she separated from him.

Hermione had sent them tiny sleepers, downy blankets, and washcloths. Lucius had unpacked those, and had stared blankly at them for a moment. Ginny was momentarily concerned, but watched him quietly, and smiled secretly to herself as he, in turn, smiled secretly to himself, folding the clothes up, laying them aside gently.

Most interestingly of all, a package of tiny hand-knit baby booties had come in the post. Since the package was unmarked, Lucius had been extremely concerned, and had only declared the contents safe after performing many, many charms on it. When the two of them had opened it, and pulled out the booties, Ginny’s mouth had unstuck, dropped slightly. The knitting looked startlingly similar to her mother’s handiwork. Lucius had looked at her, knowingly, and then the box had been placed on his desk.

Every day, Ginny expected the news of her child to be splashed across the headlines—Illegitimate Malfoy Heir! Bastard Baby! Born Out Of Wedlock!—but they never came. She had let Cuffe know, discreetly, that she was going to be working at home for the next few months, and he had acquiesced after upping her word limit for her upcoming article. He was a bastard to her sometimes, but he was close-mouthed and trustworthy, and she knew that even if he suspected her state of pregnancy, he wouldn’t blather about it to anyone. Her coworkers—they were too absorbed in their own lives to truly notice any differences in her work rhythms.

It was fair. They worked a stressful job most of the time.

She hummed a little as she shopped Diagon Alley, spooling out lengths of ribbons in Madame Malkin’s, looking for a new piece of grosgrain or velvet for Lucius to tie his hair with. When Ginny went out shopping, now, she went out first thing in the morning, avoiding the crowds, avoiding being jostled around. Lucius had offered to go with her—quite earnestly, actually—but she had refused him, assuring him that she was fine, that she could still protect herself despite being pregnant.

She felt amazing.

The morning sickness had passed quickly enough, which meant that Lucius was also released from hair-holding duty—a duty that he had performed with a smile on his face most of the time, which had been a surprise to her.

The morning sickness had passed, and now she felt better than she had expected to feel. She felt remarkably full. Her breasts weighed soft and heavy, now, in her hands—and in Lucius’. He would never admit it, but he had been struck like a fifteen-year-old boy by the increase in her bust size. His hands had migrated from always clasping across her stomach to now always cupping her breasts, thumbs toying softly with the nipples, a chin tucked over her shoulder so that he could look down at the softness of her cleavage. Sometimes he became so overcome that he would tug down the neckline of her dress, unbutton her shirt, and layer his mouth across the skin of her chest, sucking at her nipples.

“I never knew you were such a breast man,” she had gasped down at him one night after he had pulled her from her chair at the dinner table and had wrestled her out of her shirt.

He had responded by pushing her breasts together and biting both nipples into his mouth at the same time, and Ginny had cried out, digging her fingernails into his hair.

Ginny blushed as she recalled his hands all over her.

Pregnancy was upping their sex lives. She had gone through a few dire phases where she had been all over Lucius, day and night. At one point, he had actually begged her to give him a rest because he had been so exhausted from lack of sleep and the physical activity.

“Do you want your child to only be able to recognise our voices because of how much moaning we’ve been doing?” He had asked her that snappishly, and she had laughed and kissed him, her hair hanging down around their faces.

She had kept growing her hair out, wanting it to hang down her back.

Every night before bed, she took off all her clothes, and Lucius took off his, and they sat on the bed, Lucius up against the headboard, she leaning back against him between his outstretched legs, and he touched her—not necessarily sexually, but rather with an exploring aim—touched the creases of her knees, the sides of her body, the lines of her arms, the globe of her stomach. She would sit and trace the palms of her hands up and down his lightly haired thighs, sighing softly if he feathered across a particularly sensitive place.

They were always touching, touching, feeling along with fingers and palms.

Singing lightly to herself, Ginny paid for her goods.

She felt radiant, truly. She wasn’t sure that she would take to pregnancy. She had heard enough details and too many horror stories from friends and acquaintances, and she had been expecting—what? Constant nausea, swollen feet, gas, discomfort, a grumpy partner, a grumpy demeanour.

But she felt full, like a gift basket, like a beautifully wrapped present. She felt as though she was brimming.

She held the bag to herself, peeking inside to see the deep blue velvet ribbon she had chosen for Lucius. It would look nice in his hair, would bring out the colour of his eyes.

She wanted to go home to tie it into his braid.


---


The Manor was silent.

Ginny had lived there long enough to be able to gauge the inherent magic of the house. It had taken a while for the house to accept her, and Lucius had laughed when she had complained of it, explaining that it was lucky that she was Pureblood, because the Manor was irked enough as it was that there was a new woman in the house.

It had been little things at first—finding that the doors of the libraries didn’t stick so hard when she tried to open them, or that she didn’t anymore get those nasty static shocks when she touched doorknobs. Those had been the first signs that the Manor had been accepting her—it had progressed from there to the portraits actually being kinder to her, talking with her when she was alone in the house, to the cutlery being in their proper places when she went looking for a particular knife, to the tea pouring correctly, the rugs never bunching up against the doors when she was trying to get into a specific room, to the drapes always remaining closed in the mornings when she was trying to sleep in. Eventually, the house had started to have a warmer, rosier feel when she was in it. She wasn’t sure if Lucius could feel it, too, but the whole place seemed to her pinker and more welcoming when she was inside. Perhaps the Malfoy magic as a whole had started to realise that she was probably there for good, and that she was not out to harm the master of the Manor in any way.

Now, however, she stood silently in the front hall. Something was off. Something was prickling at her, raising the fine hairs along the back of her neck, making the skin on the back of her hands tighten, her fingers stiff.

There was a mounting feeling within her—not quite panic, but a sort of bloodthirsty excitement, something older and more wicked than any of the recent magic that she had been feeling within the Manor lately. Something had happened.

“Balius?”

Her voice rang out clear and bell-like in the front foyer, clattering off of the floors, the high ceilings.

When Balius Apparated in front of her, Ginny jumped slightly at his silent appearance.

There was only one question she could ask.

“Balius, where is Lucius?”

The elf looked at her quietly, and Ginny was struck at his furtive eyes. Balius was not really a servant—she did not consider him so. She thought of him more as the caretaker and secret-keeper of the Manor and of the Malfoy family. Even Lucius didn’t dare mistreat him in any way—Ginny had a feeling that Balius was older than Lucius, that he had been around far longer than any tow-headed Malfoy whelp had been, and that this was why Lucius was cordial to him.

Balius was a dedicated elf—dedicated to the family, to the secrets of the house.

“What’s happened?” Her voice had taken on a steely glint, sounded terrifying, didn’t sound like her own self. Balius recognised this and nearly flinched at the sound of it. When Ginny stood and stared him down, Balius looked at her for a moment as though he were evaluating whether or not to tell her.

Ginny had flint in her eyes.

Balius tilted his head to the side, and she knew that she had won.

“He is in the dungeons.”

Ginny felt the blood move from her face, but she didn’t gasp, didn’t exclaim, didn’t flinch. She felt herself go pale but she still stood and stared at Balius, and he back at her, and then she spoke again, saying aloud the one question that was even more important than asking where the father of her child was.

“And is he alone?”

She knew the answer before Balius even had to say it.

“No.”

Ginny shook her head. “I’m going down there.”

Balius made as if to step in front of her, and Ginny made a snarling sound as she walked, so animalistic that he moved backwards, away from her.

“I don’t know if Mistress Ginevra is in the best physical condition to go down there.”

“I don’t care, Balius.” Her voice had reached a new powerful height, and she felt the inherent magic around her, that same prickling up and down her neck, the skin on her hands tightening, and maybe Balius saw it too, because at the moment that the Manor seemed to sigh in agreement, agreeing with her, and Balius nodded once, brusquely, extended his head to beckon to her, and Ginny followed.


---


She had never before been in the dungeons. Lucius had shown her where they were, but she been ambivalent and also quietly frightened. He had kept the doors locked. She hadn’t asked, had just sorted those rooms into the mental category of Lucius’ darkened and dusty past, and he hadn’t asked her to see them. Lucius had just mentioned them in passing, as an afterthought, as they were walking past the doorway, as they were on their way to another room to explore. Ginny had shuddered a little as she had thought of the blood-stained stones, the shackles that she knew had to be down there, and he had looped his arms around her, inhaled the smell of her hair, had promised her that she would never have to go down there.

The promise was being broken now, and Lucius didn’t even know it.

Balius left her at the doorway, the door now unlocked, but not ajar, solidly closed. Ginny breathed for a moment and then grabbed the handle, determinedly.

She was not scared, not really—she was dangerously curious to see, wildly interested, part horrified, part intrigued to know why Lucius had unlocked the door, had dragged someone down there.

But there was a part of her that wasn’t sure if she was ready to see the way he was, the reversion, the regression to his warrior-state, his possibly evil state.

She placed a hand over her belly, feeling the child within her, the contentedness of it, and she went off of that feeling, her child and also the urging of the Manor and its magic, and the fact that Balius had not turned her away from the doorway, had not stopped her from discovering yet one more secret—

She opened the door and slipped inside, silently, padding down the stone staircase.


---


All she could see at first was the pale hair, tied back into a tight braid, bound with a tie. As her eyes adjusted to the dark murk, she could see that Lucius wasn’t in robes, but rather was in leather, long leather gloves that reached up to his elbows, high leather boots that were bound with laces and that came up to his knees, that leather armour across his chest that she knew too well. He was partially turned to the side, enough so that she could see his profile, the line of his body, the coiled bullwhip held casually, comfortably in his hands.

He was adjusting his gloves. He looked at ease.

Beyond him she could see a figure—what?—manacled to the wall, with a head of dark hair, said hair hanging down over the face—the figure was definitely male, as he had been stripped down to just his bare skin, his naked body pale against the cool dark of the dungeon walls.

For a terrifying moment, Ginny had thought that it had been Hermione—that somehow Lucius had gone mad and had taken her—but no, no, no, it was definitely a man, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the whip-strokes across his torso and thighs, the blood that was running down his legs, and she felt briefly sick but instead steeled herself, watching stubbornly, refusing to look away from the smeared red, set on finding out why he was down here—why they were both down here.

Ginny realised, suddenly, that she was seeing a window into Lucius’ past—that this was what he was like in the height of his Death Eater days, in the height of his warrior cruelty.

She pressed herself into the doorway, watched as Lucius walked evenly over to the man, and used one gloved hand to grab a hank of the dark hair, pulling the face up.

Ginny stifled a gasp. Beneath the pulpy mass of bruises, the split lip, the lacerated eyebrow, she saw that it was Jugson, the same man who has terrorised them in the pub, had slandered them so, had been so cruel, so full of vitriol and anger, had made Hermione feel so frightened—so frightened that she had come to stay at the Manor—Ginny breathed in.

Everything was topsy turvy. She was unsure of what to feel about the scene in front of her. Seeing the vitriolic face of Jugson so battered, almost beyond recognition—it confused her. She knew, deep down, that she should feel something like pity for the man who was manacled to her partner’s wall—who had been, in all likelihood, tortured by Lucius for the past few hours or god knew how long. Ginny also knew that Lucius was in a frightening state of mind at the current moment, but she felt oddly protective of him—wondered what Jugson had done to drive to Lucius to this disturbing regression. She knew that something had to have happened to seriously threaten Lucius’ family, her, his son, something—in order for this happen. This was Lucius—a man who didn’t even want to talk about prison, who believed he had gotten what he had deserved, and here he was—

It was then that Lucius spoke.

“If you even leave here alive, Jugson, I know that you will keep a promise for me. Won’t you?” Lucius had pressed the handle of the bullwhip up under Jugson’s throat, and was obviously pressing hard enough for severe discomfort. Jugson made a choking sound. “Remember that promise I asked of you? To never, never threaten Ginevra or her acquaintances ever again.” He pressed down one more time, hard, and then eased off of Jugson’s throat.

There was silence for a beat.

“Fuck you, you goddamned faggot. And fuck your slag of a girlfriend.”

Ginny’s eyes widened at the rancour that the man still had, even after what was clearly hours of duress. She felt a burn of rage at the words. She felt a burn of fear for Jugson. She felt a burn of pity for Lucius.

Lucius had turned slightly away from Jugson in that moment of previous silence, but stiffened with those words. He was still for a moment, and then turned in a graceful, fluid circle, wielding the bullwhip up and over in a languid arc, and Ginny watched in awe and horror as the wicked leather tip flicked out and snapped Jugson across the belly.

She shut her eyes and brought her hands up to her ears at the sound that Jugson made after.

Lucius was staring at Jugson, who was staring back just as solidly.

“Leave me alone.” Lucius’ words were strong. “Leave us alone, and I will never find you again. Threaten us still, and I will hunt you down, you bigoted piece of filth. I will hunt you down for as long as I live, and I will teach Ginevra how to hunt you, and we will haunt you until the day you die.” He dropped the whip. “Leave her alone. And leave her Muggleborn friends alone.”

Ginny’s mouth dropped slightly. This was different than she had first thought. True, Lucius was physically reverting to his Death Eater days, but the cause was all different—all wrong, all skewed, but all right for her. He was not protecting some stupid Pureblooded stronghold of nonsense, but was protecting his blood-traitor of a lover and her Mudblood friends. She inhaled strongly, interested, shocked.

Jugson was silent for a minute, and Ginny wondered if it was all over.

Until he spoke again.

“What’s her cunt like, Malfoy?”

She didn’t even register Lucius’ movement, but she realised that he had moved forward rapidly, had eschewed the whip and was using his fists on Jugson now, broad and pale fists that were slamming up into the man’s ribcage, into his stomach, across his jaw, and Jugson wasn’t laughing now, he was making a sound like a sob, or maybe that was Lucius, and she could see the blood exploding out of the two of them like viscous firework flowers—

“Lucius!”

Her voice rang out.

Lucius turned so quickly that his hair whipped out behind him in a pale circle. Ginny was still pressed up against the stone of the doorway, her arms folded over her stomach, and she wondered what her eyes looked like in that moment—maybe as his were—wide and wild, completely unsure of what was to happen in the next second of interaction.

Jugson made a sound as though he were beginning to speak, but Ginny was faster than both of the men, and her wand was out, the silencing spell thrown onto Jugson’s throat before he could force the next few words out.

Lucius was staring at her the entire time.

She dropped her wand onto the ground, her chest rising and falling as she stared back at him.

“Ginevra,” he began, but before he could continue, she simply held out her hands to him, the palms up. His face crumpled and he stepped into her, grabbing at her hands. He was silent, but he slid down the front of her body, falling solidly to his knees, his forehead pressed into her rounded belly. She wasn’t sure what he was doing—laughing or crying—but she realised that some last wall was being broken down, and that this whole situation was necessary—that Lucius had obviously been storing some last dregs of his Death Eater past somewhere deep down in his being, and this was the exorcism, the true exorcism, the taking of his past and turning it into something new and different.

She cupped her hands to the back of his head, both of them completely unaware of the third occupant of the room, both of them uncaring.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was whispered and low. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, god,” he said, and then he leaned over and retched violently onto the stone floor, coming down to his hands and knees. Ginny fell to her knees beside him, her form more cumbersome because of her pregnant body, and she held the coil of his braided hair back, placed a hand on his forehead, along his spine.

“You don’t have to protect us like this, Lucius.”

Lucius was silent, wiping the back of a hand along his lips.

“We can figure out other ways. It’s not always like this.”

“He deserves it,” he said, so softly that Ginny had to bend to hear it. “He would have killed, you know.”

“We don’t know that,” Ginny said just as softly.

“I just wanted us to be safe.”

“You were protecting Hermione, too.” Her voice was soft and quavering, and Lucius tensed up but then nodded once.

Ginny exhaled and pressed her forehead to his, smelling the vomit, the blood all over his person, the saltiness of his sweat, the brine of the leather.

“We need to clean this up. We need to clean this all up,” Ginny said. She looked over her shoulder at Jugson, who was staring at them viciously. “I know that you’re good with memory charms, Lucius.”

“That’s illegal,” he said, seeming unbelieving of what she was saying.

“So is torturing someone in your basement.”

“I want to kill him,” he said solemnly.

Ginny shook her head. “You can’t do that. You can’t play creator, deciding whom you get to kill and who gets to leave. You know you can’t do that. It doesn’t matter how evil he is, how bad he is. The two of us are always going to have risks, as long as we are together—there are always going to be people who hate us.” She paused. “Can you wipe his memory?”

Lucius looked at her for a moment. “I won’t kill him. I will take care of it.”

“Lucius.”

“I won’t. I won’t kill him. I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

Ginny stared for a moment, and then nodded. “I trust you.”

“Leave. Please. You’re—I don’t want to put our child at risk.”

Ginny wanted to argue, wanted to rail against his command, but she truly wanted to get out of the dungeon, and she didn’t want to put any stress on their baby either, didn’t want to see how Lucius resolved the issue—she knew he wouldn’t kill Jugson, if he had promised it to her, but she didn’t want to see the end result, wanted to plead ignorance.

She nodded softly, stroking a hand once more over the golden cap of his hair. His eyes closed slightly at her touch.

She stood, and he helped her, his arms supporting her as she struggled with her girth. Ginny drew herself up to her full height, and took a few strong steps toward Jugson, standing in front of him, her arms on her hips.

She looked at him for a moment, and then shook her head, left the dungeon quietly, closed the door behind her.

---


It was a few hours before Lucius came up to their bedroom. He had changed out of the leather armour that he had been wearing in the dungeon, had showered somewhere else in the Manor, had combed his wet hair back and tied it.

Ginny was sitting on the bed, staring at him.

Lucius stood in the doorway.

“I’m not—I won’t—I don’t judge, Lucius.” Her voice was small, but her arms were open. “I’m not afraid of you, if that is what you are worried about.”

He shook his head, but it was a tentative movement, and so instead he walked across the carpet, climbing long-limbed and slowly onto the bed, facing her.

Ginny looked at him solemnly for a long moment. He seemed uncomfortable under he gaze, but let her stare, let her divine him.

She tilted her head, blinked slowly.

“Have you let it go now?”

He was silent for a bruised moment, the purple circles under his eyes even more evident now in the dusk light of the bedroom. Ginny noted how he looked exhausted, reticent, part guilty, part sated.

When he spoke his voice was roughened. “Let go of what?”

She looked hard at him. “That part of you. I wasn’t sure if it was still present or not, but I guess there was still a vestige of it, deep down, somewhere.”

“I won’t be ashamed for protecting my family.” His voice was not quite quavering but was not steady, either.

Ginny sighed. “No, you won’t be. I just don’t want you to do that again. Ever. Please, not ever.”

Lucius moved closer to her, coming up onto his knees, placing a palm on either side of her face. “But if someone threatens us—I will do what I have to do.”

They looked at each other, and realised the impasse, the things that between them would never be properly resolved, and then Ginny nodded, twice, and Lucius bent down to kiss her mouth softly.

So this was the final sacrifice they would be making for each other—Ginny was warmly satisfied that Lucius had protected not only her but also Hermione, but she was also worried at his way of taking care of things, no matter how deserving his victim had just been. Lucius was quietly in awe of her tacit acceptance of his violent regression, and was also silently telling her—with his hands, with his eyes—that if his family was so threatened again, he would revert to the same tactics to keep them safe, no matter what the consequences.

“I won’t be sent back to prison. You know that. I can guarantee that.”

His voice was quiet in the room, and Ginny resisted the urge to shiver, because she did know that, did know that he could dispose of anyone quietly and efficiently, could avoid prison under any circumstances, and while it should have scared her—maybe it could have been her, or a friend of hers that he would do that to—it didn’t. For some slick and sick reason, it comforted her that she had a partner that was so intimate with the dark, the wicked—and who would protect her and her child no matter what.

She exhaled shakily into his mouth and nodded.

He pulled back, sliding under the covers beside her.

“Did I scare you?”

Ginny thought for a moment. “No.” It was an honest answer. He had not.

And that was the part that surprised her the most, and it didn’t disturb her but danced across her brain, questioning, as she curled around him in sleep.


---